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The Pointing Man: A Burmese Mystery

by Marjorie Douie · English · Gutenberg #14049 · 405,765 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Pointing Man: A Burmese Mystery

Author: Marjorie Douie


        
Release date: November 15, 2004 [eBook #14049]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/14049

Credits: Produced by Steven desJardins and PG Distributed Proofreaders


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POINTING MAN: A BURMESE MYSTERY ***

THE POINTING MAN

_A Burmese Mystery_

BY MARJORIE DOUIE

NEW YORK
E.P. DUTTON & COMPANY
1920




CONTENTS

I

IN WHICH THE DESTINY THAT PLAYS WITH MEN MOVES THE PIECES ON THE
BOARD

II

TELLS THE STORY OF A LOSS, AND HOW IT AFFECTED THE REV. FRANCIS
HEATH

III

INDICATES A STANDPOINT COMMONLY SUPPOSED TO REPRESENT THE
PRINCIPLES OF THE JESUIT FATHERS

IV

INTRODUCES THE READER TO MRS. WILDER IN A SECRETIVE MOOD

V

CRAVEN JOICEY, THE BANKER, FINDS THAT HIS MEMORY IS NOT TO BE
TRUSTED

VI

TELLS HOW ATKINS EXPLAINS FACTS BY PEOPLE AND NOT PEOPLE BY
FACTS, AND HOW HARTLEY, HEAD OF THE POLICE, SMELLS THE SCENT OF
APPLE ORCHARDS GROWING IN A FOOL'S PARADISE

VII

FINDS THE REV. FRANCIS HEATH READING GEORGE HERBERT'S POEMS, AND
LEAVES HIM PLEDGED TO A POSSIBLY COMPROMISING SILENCE

VIII

SHOWS HOW THE CLOAK OF DARKNESS OF ONE NIGHT HIDES MANY
EMOTIONS, AND MRS. WILDER IS FRANKLY INQUISITIVE

IX

MRS. WILDER IS PRESENTED IN A MELTING MOOD, AND DRAYCOTT WILDER
IS FORCED TO RECALL THE LINES COMMENCING "A FOOL THERE WAS"

X

IN WHICH CRAVEN JOICEY IS OVERCOME BY A SUDDEN INDISPOSITION,
AND HARTLEY, WITHOUT LOOKING FOR HIM, FINDS THE MAN HE WANTED

XI

SHOWS HOW THE "WHISPER FROM THE DAWN OF LIFE" ENABLES CORYNDON
TO TAKE THE DRIFTING THREADS BETWEEN HIS FINGERS

XII

SHOWS HOW A MAN MAY CLIMB A HUNDRED STEPS INTO A PASSIONLESS
PEACE, AND RETURN AGAIN TO A WORLD OF SMALL TORMENTS

XIII

PUTS FORWARD THE FACT THAT A SUDDEN FRIENDSHIP NEED NOT BE BASED
UPON A SUDDEN LIKING; AND PASSES THE NIGHT UNTIL DAWN REVEALS A
SHAMEFUL SECRET

XIV

TELLS HOW SHIRAZ, THE PUNJABI, ADMITTED THE FRAILTIES OF
ORDINARY HUMANITY, AND HOW CORYNDON ATTENDED AFTERNOON SERVICE,
AND CONSIDERED THE VEXED QUESTION OF TEMPERAMENT

XV

IN WHICH THE FURTHERING OF A STRANGE COMRADESHIP IS CONTINUED,
AND A BEGGAR FROM AMRITZAR CRIES IN THE STREETS OF MANGADONE

XVI

IN WHICH LEH SHIN IS BREATHED UPON BY A JOSS AND EXPERIENCES THE
TERROR OF A MAN WHO TOUCHES THE VEIL BEHIND WHICH THE IMMORTALS
DWELL

XVII

TELLS HOW CORYNDON LEARNS FROM THE REV. FRANCIS HEATH WHAT THE
REV. FRANCIS HEATH NEVER TOLD HIM

XVIII

THE REV. FRANCIS HEATH UNLOCKS HIS DOOR AND SHOWS WHAT LIES
BEHIND

XIX

IN WHICH LEH SHIN WHISPERS A STORY INTO THE EAR OF SHIRAZ, THE
PUNJABI; THE BURDEN OF WHICH IS: "HAVE I FOUND THEE, O MINE
ENEMY?"

XX

CRAVEN JOICEY, THE BANKER, IS FACED BY A MAN WITH A WHIP IN HIS
HAND, AND CORYNDON FINDS A CLUE

XXI

DEMONSTRATES THE PERSUASIVE POWER OF A KNIFE EDGE, AND TELLS A
STORY OF A GOLD LACQUER BOWL

XXII

IN WHICH CORYNDON HOLDS THE LAST THREAD AND DRAWS IT TIGHT

XXIII

DEMONSTRATES THE TRUTH OF THE AXIOM THAT "THE UNEXPECTED ALWAYS
HAPPENS"

XXIV

IN WHICH A WOODEN IMAGE POINTS FOR THE LAST TIME

GLOSSARY




THE POINTING MAN

I

IN WHICH THE DESTINY THAT PLAYS WITH MEN MOVES THE PIECES ON THE BOARD


Dust lay thick along the road that led through the very heart of the
native quarter of Mangadone; dust raised into a misty haze which hung in
the air and actually introduced a light undernote of red into the
effect. Dust, which covered the bare feet of the coolies, the velvet
slippers of the Burmese, which encroached everywhere and no one
regarded, for presently, just at sundown, shouting watermen, carrying
large bamboo vessels with great spouts, would come running along the
road, casting the splashing water on all sides, and reduce the dry
powder to temporary mud.

The main street of the huge bazaar in Mangadone was as busy a
thoroughfare as any crowded lane of the city of London, and it blazed
with colour and life as the evening air grew cool. There were shops
where baskets were sold, shops apparently devoted only to the sale of
mirrors, shops where tailors sat on the ground and worked at sewing
machines; sweet stalls, food stalls, cafés, flanked by dusty tubs of
plants and crowded with customers, who reclined on sofas and chairs set
right into the street itself. Nearer the river end of the street, the
shops were more important, and business offices announced themselves on
large placards inscribed in English, and in curling Burmese characters
like small worms hooping and arching themselves, and again in thick
black letters which resembled tea leaves formed into the picturesque
design of Chinese writing, for Mangadone was one of the most
cosmopolitan ports of the East, and stood high in the commercial world
as a place for trade.

Along the street a motley of colour took itself like a sea of shades and
tints. Green, crimson, lemon yellow, lapis-lazuli, royal purple,
intermingled with the naked brown bodies of coolies clad only in
loin-cloths, for every race and class emerged just before sunset. Rich
Burmen clad in yards of stiff, rustling silk jostled the lean, spare
Chinamen and the Madrassis who came to Mangadone to make money out of
the indolence of the natives of a place who cared to do little but smoke
and laugh. Poor Burmen in red and yellow cottons, as content with life
as their wealthy brethren, loitered and smoked with the little
white-coated women with flower-decked heads, and they all flowed on with
the tide and filled the air with a perpetual babel of sound.

The great, high houses on either side of the street were dilapidated and
gaunt, let out for the most part in flats and tenements. Screaming
children swarmed naked and entirely unconcerned upon every landing, and
out on the verandas that gave publicity to the way of life in the
native quarter. Sometimes a rag of curtain covered the entrances to the
houses, but just as often it did not. Women washed the big brass and
earthenware pots, cooked the food, and played with the children in the
smoky darkness, or sat to watch the evening show of the street.

At one corner of the upper end of the street was a curio and china shop
owned by a stout and wealthy Burman, Mhtoon Pah. The shop was one of the
features of the place, and no globe-trotting tourist could pass through
Mangadone without buying a set of tea-cups, a dancing devil, a carpet,
or a Burmese gong, from Mhtoon Pah. A strange-looking effigy in tight
breeches, with pointing yellow hands and a smiling yellow face, stood
outside the shop, eternally asking people in wooden, dumb show, to go in
and be robbed by the proprietor. He had stood there and pointed for so
long that the green glaze of his coat was sun-blistered, but he
invariably drew the attention of passing tourists, and acted as a
sign-board. He pointed at a small door up a flight of steps, and behind
the small door was a dark shop, smelling of sandal-wood and cassia, and
strong with the burning fumes of joss-sticks. Innumerable cardboard
boxes full of Japanese dolls, full of glass bracelets of all colours,
full of ivory figures, and full of amber and jade ornaments, were piled
in the shelves. Silver bands, embossed in relief with the history of the
Gaudama--the Lord Buddha--stood under glass protection, and everything
that the heart of the touring American or Britisher could desire was to
be had, at a price, in the curio shop of Mhtoon Pah. Umbrellas of all
colours from Bussan; silk from Shantung; carpets from Mirzapore; silver
peacocks, Japanese embroideries, shell-trimmed bags from Shan and
Cochin, all were there; and the wealth of Mhtoon Pah was great.

Everybody knew the curio dealer: he had beguiled and swindled each new
arrival in Mangadone, and his personality helped to make him a very
definite figure in the place. He was a large man, his size accentuated
by his full silk petticoat; a man with large feet, large hands and a
round bullet head, set on a thick neck. He had a few sleek black hairs
at the corners of his mouth, and his long, narrow eyes, with thick
yellow whites and inky-black pupils, never expressed any emotion.
Clothed in strawberry-red silk and a white coat, with a crimson scarf
knotted low over his forehead, he was very nearly as strange and
wonderful a sight as his own shop of myriad wares, and his manner was at
all times the manner of a Grand Duke. Mhtoon Pah was as well known as
the pointing effigy outside, but, whereas the world in the street
believed they knew what the wooden man pointed at, no one could ever
tell what Mhtoon Pah saw, and no one knew except Mhtoon Pah himself.

All day long Mhtoon Pah sat inside his shop on a low divan and smoked
cheroots, and only when a customer was of sufficient importance did he
ever rise to conduct a sale himself. He was assisted by a thin, eager
boy, a native Christian from Ootacamund, who had followed several trades
before he became the shop assistant of Mhtoon Pah. He was useful
because he could speak English, and he had been dressing-boy to a
married Sahib who lived in a big house at the end of the Cantonment,
therefore he knew something of the ways of Mem-Sahibs; and he had taken
a prize at the Sunday school, therefore Absalom was a boy of good
character, and was known very nearly as well as Mhtoon Pah himself.

It was a hot, stifling evening, the evening of July the 29th. The rains
had lashed the country for days, and even the trees that grew in among
the houses of Paradise Street were fresh and green, though one of the
hot, burning breaks of blue sky and glaring sunlight had baked the road
into Indian-red dust once more, and the interior of Mhtoon Pah's curio
shop was heavy with stale scents and dark shadows that crept out as the
gloom of evening settled in upon it. Mhtoon Pah moved about looking at
his goods, and touching them with careful hands. He hovered over an
ivory lady carrying an umbrella, and looked long at a white marble
Buddha, who returned his look with an equally inscrutable regard. The
Buddha sat cross-legged, thinking for ever and ever about eternity, and
Mhtoon Pah moved round in red velvet toe-slippers, pattering lightly as
he went, for in spite of his bulk Mhtoon Pah had an almost soundless
walk. Having gone over everything and stood to count the silver bowls,
he waited as though he was listening, and after a little the light creak
of the staircase warned him that steps were coming towards the shop from
the upper rooms.

"Absalom," he called, and the steps hurried, and after a moment's talk
to which the boy listened carefully as though receiving directions, he
told him to close the shop and place his chair at the top of the steps,
as he desired to sit outside and look at the street.

When the chair was placed, Mhtoon Pah took up his elevated position and
smoked silently. The toil of the day was over, and he leaned his arm
along the back of his chair and crossed one leg over his knee. He could
hear Absalom closing the shop behind him, and he turned his curious,
expressionless eyes upon the boy as he passed down the steps and mingled
with the crowd in the street. Just opposite, a story-teller squatted on
the ground in the centre of a group of men who laughed and clapped their
hands, his flashing teeth and quick gesticulations adding to each point
he made; it was still clear enough to see his alternating expression of
assumed anger or amusement. It was clear enough to notice the coloured
scarves and smiling faces of a bullock cart full of girls going slowly
homewards, and it was clear enough to see and recognize the Rev. Francis
Heath, hurrying at speed between the crowd; clear enough to see the Rev.
Francis stop for a moment to wish his old pupil Absalom good evening,
and then vanish quickly like a figure flashed on a screen by a
cinematograph.

Lights came out in high windows and sounds of bagpipes and beating
tom-toms began inside the open doors of a nautch house. An evil-looking
house where green dragons curled up the fretted entrance, and where,
overhead, faces peered from a balcony into the street. There was noise
enough there to attract any amount of attention. Smart carriages, with
white-uniformed _syces_, hurried up, bearing stout, plethoric men from
the wharf offices, and Mhtoon Pah saluted several of the sahibs, who
reclined in comfort behind fine pairs of trotting horses.

Their time for passing having gone, and the street relieved of the
disturbance, lamps were carried out and set upon tables and booths, but
a few red streaks of evening tinted the sky, and faces that passed were
still recognizable. A bay pony ridden by a lady almost at a gallop came
so fast that she was up the street and round the corner in a twinkling.
If Mrs. Wilder was dining out on the night of July 29th she was running
things close; equally so if she was receiving guests.

A flare of light from a window opposite fell across the face of the
dancing man, who pointed at Mhtoon Pah, and appeared to make him offer
his principal for sale, or introduce him to the street with an
indicating finger. The gloom grew, calling out the lights into strength,
but the concourse did not thin: it only gathered in numbers, and the
long, moaning hoot of an out-going tramp filled the air as though with a
wail of sorrow at departure. Lascars in coal-begrimed tunics joined in
with the rest, adding their voices to the babel, and round-hatted
sailors from the Royal Indian Marine ships mingled with them.

All up and down the Mangadone River lights came out. Clear lights along
the land, and wavering torch-lights in the water. Ships' port-holes
cleared themselves in the darkness, ships' lights gleamed green and red
in high stars up in the crows'-nests, or at the shapeless bulk of dark
bows, and white sheets of strong electric clearness lay over one or two
landing-stages where craft was moored alongside and overtime work still
continued. Little sampans glided in and out like whispers, and small
boats with crossed oars, rowed by one man, ferried to and fro, but it
was late, and, gradually, all commercial traffic ceased.

It was quite late now, an hour when European life had withdrawn to the
Cantonment. It was not an hour for Sahibs on foot to be about, and yet
it seemed that there was one who found the night air of July 29th hot
and close, and desired to go towards the river for the sake of the
breeze and the fresh air. He, too, like all the others, passed along
Paradise Street, passing quickly, as the others had passed, his head
bent and his eyes averted from the faces that looked up at him from easy
chairs, from crowded doorsteps, or that leaned over balconies. He, also,
whoever he was, had not Mhtoon Pah's leisure to regard the street, and
he went on with a steady, quick walk which took him out on to the wharf,
and from the wharf along a waste place where the tram lines ceased, and
away from there towards a cluster of lights in a house close over the
dark river itself.

The stars came out overhead, and the Southern Cross leaned down; seen
from the river over the twin towers of the cathedral, seen from the
cathedral brooding over the native quarter, seen in Paradise Street not
at all, and not in any way missed by the inhabitants, whose eyes were
not upon the stars; seen again in the Cantonment, over the massed trees
of the park, and seen remarkably well from the wide veranda of Mrs.
Wilder's bungalow, where the guests sat after a long dinner, remarking
upon the heat and oppressiveness of the tropic night. The fire-flies
danced over the trees like iridescent sparks hung on invisible gauze,
and even came into the lighted drawing-room, to sparkle with less
radiance against the plain white walls. Fans whirred round and round
like large tee-totums set near the ceiling, and even the electric light
appeared to give out heat; no breeze stirred from the far-away river, no
coolness came with the dark, no relief from the brooding, sultry heat.
It was no hotter than many nights in any break in the rains, but the
guests invited by Mrs. Wilder felt the languor of the air, and felt it
more profoundly because their hostess herself was affected by it.

Mrs. Wilder was a dark, handsome woman of thirty-five, usually full of
life and animation, and her dinners were known to be entertainments in
the real sense of the word. Draycott Wilder was no mate for her in
appearance or manner, but Draycott Wilder was marked by the Powers as a
successful man. He took very little part in the social side of their
married life, and sat in the shadow near the lighted door, listening
while his guests talked. The party was in no way different to many
others, and it would have ended and been forgotten by all concerned if
it had not been for the fact that an unusual occurrence broke it up in
dismay. Mrs. Wilder complained of the heat during dinner, and she had
been pale, looking doubly so in her vivid green dress; her usual
animation had vanished, and she talked with evident effort and seemed
glad of the darkness of the veranda.

Suddenly one of those strange silences fell over everyone, silences that
may be of a few seconds' duration, but that appear like hours. What they
are connected with, no one can guess. The silence lasted for a second,
and it was broken with sudden violence.

"My God," said the voice of Hartley, the Head of the Police, speaking in
tones of alarm. "Mrs. Wilder has fainted!" She had fallen forward in her
chair, and he had caught her as she fell.

Very soon the guests dispersed and the bungalow was still for the night.
One or two waited to hear what the doctor had to say, and went away
satisfied in the knowledge that the heat had been too much for Mrs.
Wilder, and, but for that event, the dinner-party would have been
forgotten after two days. Hartley was the last to leave, and the sound
of trotting hoofs grew faint along the road.

By an hour after midnight nearly the whole white population can be
presumed to be asleep; day wakes early in the East, and there are few
who keep all-night hours, because morning calls men from their beds to
their work, and even this hot, sultry night people lay on their beds and
tried to sleep; but in the small bungalow where the Rev. Francis Heath
lived with a solitary Sapper officer, the bed that he slept in was
smooth and unstirred by restless tossing inside the mosquito net.

The Rev. Francis was out, sitting by the bed of a dying parishioner. He
watched the long hours through, dressed as he had been in the afternoon,
in a grey flannel suit, his thin neck too long and too spare for his
all-around collar, and as he watched sometimes and sometimes prayed, he
too felt the pressure of the night.

The woman he prayed beside was dying and quite unconscious of his
presence. Now and then, to relieve the strain, he got up and stood by
the window, looking at the lights against the sky and thinking very
definitely of something that troubled him and drew his lips into a
tight, thin line. He was a young man of the type described usually as
"zealous" and "earnest," and a light that was almost the light of
fanaticism shone in his eyes. A dying parishioner was no more of a
novelty to Mr. Heath, than one of Mrs. Wilder's dinner-parties was to
her guests, and yet the woman on the bed appealed to his pity as few
others had done in his experience.

When the doctor came he nodded to the clergyman and just touched the
hand on the quilt. He was in evening dress, and he explained that he had
been detained owing to his hostess having been taken suddenly ill.

"Where is Rydal himself?"

He asked the question carelessly, dropping the pulseless wrist.

"Who can tell?" said the Rev. Francis Heath.

"He'd better keep out of the way," continued the doctor. "I believe
there's a police warrant out for him. Hartley spoke of it to-night. She
will be gone before morning, and a good job for her."

The throbbing hot night wore on, and July the 29th became July the 30th,
and Mangadone awoke to a fierce, tearing thunder-storm that boomed and
crashed and wore itself out in torrents of heavy rain.




II

TELLS THE STORY OF A LOSS, AND HOW IT AFFECTED THE REV. FRANCIS HEATH


Half-way up a low hill rise on the far side of the Mangadone Cantonment
was the bungalow of Hartley, Head of the Police. It was a tidy,
well-kept house, the house of a bachelor who had an eye to things
himself and who was well served by competent servants. Hartley had
reached the age of forty without having married, and he was solid of
build and entirely sensible and practical of mind. He was spoken of as
"sound" and "capable," for it is thus we describe men with a word, and
his mind was adjusted so as to give room for only one idea at a time. He
was convinced that he was tactful to a fault, nothing had ever shaken
him in this belief, and his personal courage was the courage of the
British lion. Hartley was popular and on friendly and confidential terms
with everybody.

Mangadone, like most other places in the East, was as full of cliques as
a book is of words, but Hartley regarded them not at all. Popularity was
his weakness and his strength, and he swam in all waters and was invited
everywhere. Mrs. Wilder, who knew exactly who to treat with distant
condescension and who to ignore entirely, invariably included him in
her intimate dinners, and the Chief Commissioner, also a bachelor,
invited him frequently and discussed many topics with him as the wine
circled. Even Craven Joicey, the banker, who made very few acquaintances
and fewer intimates, was friendly with Hartley; one of those odd,
unlikely friendships that no one understands.

The week following upon the thunder-storm had been a week of grey skies
over an acid-green world, and even Hartley became conscious that there
is something mournful about a tropical country without a sun in the sky
as he sat in his writing-room. It was gloomy there, and the palm trees
outside tossed and swayed, and the low mist wraiths down in the valley
clung and folded like cotton-wool, hiding the town and covering it up to
the very top spires of the cathedral. Hartley was making out a report on
a case of dacoity against a Chinaman, but the light in the room was bad,
and he pushed back his chair impatiently and shouted to the boy to bring
a lamp.

His tea was set out on a small lacquer table near his chair, and his
fox-terrier watched him with imploring eyes, occasionally voicing his
feelings in a stifled bark. The boy came in answer to his call, carrying
the lamp in his hands, and put it down near Hartley, who turned up the
wick, and fell to his reading again; then, putting the report into a
locked drawer, he drew his chair from the writing-table and poured out a
cup of tea.

He had every reason to suppose that his day's work was done, and that he
could start off for the Club when his tea was finished. The wind rattled
the palm branches and came in gusts through the veranda, banging doors
and shaking windows, and the evening grew dark early, with the
comfortless darkness of rain overhead, when the wheels of a carriage
sounded on the damp, sodden gravel outside. Hartley got up and peered
through the curtain that hung across the door. Callers at such an hour
upon such a day were not acceptable, and he muttered under his breath,
feeling relieved, however, when he saw a fat and heavy figure in Burmese
clothing get out from the _gharry_.

"If that is anyone to see me on business, say that this is neither the
place nor the hour to come," he shouted to the boy, and returning to the
tea-table, poured out a saucer of milk for the eager terrier, now
divided between his duties as a dog and his feelings as an animal.

The boy reappeared after a pause, bearing a message to the effect that
Mhtoon Pah begged an immediate interview upon a subject so pressing that
it could not wait.

Hartley listened to the message, swore under his breath, and looked
sharply at Mhtoon Pah when he came into the room. Usually the curio
dealer had a smile and a suave, pleasant manner, but on this occasion
all his suavity was gone, and his eyes, usually so inexpressive and
secret, were lighted with a strange, wolfish look of anger and rage that
was almost suggestive of insanity.

He bowed before the Head of the Police and began to talk in broken,
gasping words, waving his hands as he spoke. His story was confused and
rambling, but what he told was to the effect that his boy, Absalom, had
disappeared and could not be found.

"It was the night of the 29th of July, _Thakin_, and I sent him forth
upon a business. Next morning he did not return. It was I who opened the
shop, it was I who waited upon customers, and Absalom was not there."

"What inquiries have you made?"

"All that may be made, _Thakin_. His mother comes crying to my door, his
brothers have searched everywhere. Ah, that I had the body of the man
who has done this thing, and held him in the sacred tank, to make food
for the fishes."

His dark eyes gleamed, and he showed his teeth like a dog.

"Nonsense, man," said Hartley, quickly. "You seem to suppose that the
boy is dead. What reason have you for imagining that there has been foul
play?"

"_Seem_ to suppose, _Thakin_?" Mhtoon Pah gasped again, like a drowning
man. "And yet the _Thakin_ knows the sewer city, the Chinese quarter,
the streets where men laugh horribly in the dark. Houses there,
_Thakin_, that crawl with yellow men, who are devils, and who split a
man as they would split a fowl--" he broke off, and waved his hands
about wildly.

Hartley felt a little sick; there was something so hideous in the way
Mhtoon Pah expressed himself that he recoiled a step and summoned his
common sense to his aid.

"Who saw Absalom last?"

"Many people must have seen him. I sat myself outside the shop at sunset
to watch the street, and had sent Absalom forth upon a business, a
private business: he was a good boy. Many saw him go out, but no one saw
him return."

"That is no use, Mhtoon Pah; you must give me some names. Who saw the
boy besides yourself?"

Mhtoon Pah opened his mouth twice before any sound came, and he beat his
hands together.

"The Padre Sahib, going in a hurry, spoke a word to him; I saw that with
my eyes."

"Mr. Heath?"

"Yes, _Thakin_, no other."

"And besides Mr. Heath, was there anyone else who saw him?"

Mhtoon Pah bowed himself double in his chair and rocked about.

"The whole street saw him go, but none saw him return, neither will
they. They took Absalom into some dark place, and when his blood ran
over the floor, and out under the doors, the Chinamen got their little
knives, the knives that have long tortoise-shell handles, and very sharp
edges, and then--"

"For God's sake stop talking like that," said Hartley, abruptly. "There
isn't a fragment of evidence to prove that the boy is murdered. I am
sorry for you, Mhtoon Pah, but I warn you that if you let yourself think
of things like that you will be in a lunatic asylum in a week."

He took out a sheet of paper and made careful notes. The boy had been
gone four to five days, and beyond the fact that the Rev. Francis Heath
had seen and spoken to him, no one else was named as having passed along
Paradise Street. The clergyman's evidence was worth nothing at all,
except to prove that the boy had left Mhtoon Pah's shop at the time
mentioned, and Mhtoon Pah explained that the "private business" was to
buy a gold lacquer bowl desired by Mrs. Wilder, who had come to the shop
a day or two before and given the order. Gold lacquer bowls were
difficult to procure, and he had charged the boy to search for it in the
morning and to buy it, if possible, from the opium dealer Leh Shin, who
could be securely trusted to be half-drugged at an early hour.

"It was the morning I spoke of, _Thakin_," said the curio dealer, who
had grown calmer. "But Absalom did not return to his home that night. He
may have gone to Leh Shin; he was a diligent boy, a good boy, always
eager in the pursuit of his duty and advantage."

"I am very sorry for you, Mhtoon Pah," said Hartley again, "and I shall
investigate the matter. I know Leh Shin, and I consider it quite
unlikely that he has had anything to do with it."

When Mhtoon Pah rattled away in the yellow _gharry_, Hartley put the
notes on one side. It was a police matter, and he could trust his staff
to work the subject up carefully under his supervision, and going to the
telephone, he communicated the principal facts to the head office,
mentioning the name of Leh Shin and the story of the gold lacquer bowl,
and giving instructions that Leh Shin was to be tactfully interrogated.

When Hartley hung up the receiver he took his hat and waterproof and
went out into the warm, damp dusk of the evening. There was something
that he did not like about the weather. It was heavy, oppressive,
stifling, and though there was air in plenty, it was the stale air of a
day that seemed never to have got out of bed, but to have lain in a
close room behind the shut windows of Heaven.

He remembered the boy Absalom well, and could recall his dark, eager
face, bulging eyes and protuberant under-lip, and the idea of his having
been decoyed off unto some place of horror haunted him. It was still on
his mind when he walked into the Club veranda and joined a group of men
in the bar. Joicey, the banker, was with them, silent, morose, and moody
according to his wont, taking no particular notice of anything or
anybody. Fitzgibbon, a young Irish barrister-at-law, was talking, and
laughing and doing his best to keep the company amused, but he could get
no response out of Joicey. Hartley was received with acclamations suited
to his general reputation for popularity, and he stood talking for a
little, glad to shake off his feeling of depression. When he saw Mr.
Heath come in and go up the staircase to an upstairs room, he followed
him with his eyes and decided to take the opportunity to speak to him.

"What's the matter, Joicey?" he asked, speaking to the banker. "You look
as if you had fever."

"I'm all right," Joicey spoke absently. "It's this infernally stuffy
weather, and the evenings."

"I'm glad it's that," laughed Fitzgibbon, "I thought that it might be
me. I'm so broke that even my tea at _Chota haziri_ is getting badly
overdrawn."

"Dine with me on Saturday," suggested Hartley, "I've seen very little of
you just lately."

Joicey looked up and nodded.

"I'll come," he said, laconically, and Hartley, finishing his drink,
went up the staircase.

The reading-room of the Club was usually empty at that hour, and the
great tables littered with papers, free to any studious reader. When
Hartley came in, the Rev. Francis Heath had the place entirely to
himself, and was sitting with a copy of the _Saturday Review_ in his
hands. He did not hear Hartley come in, and he started as his name was
spoken, and putting down the _Review_, looked at the Head of the Police
with questioning eyes.

"I've come to talk over something with you, Heath," Hartley began,
drawing a chair close to the table. "Can you remember anything at all of
what you were doing on the evening of July the twenty-ninth?"

The Rev. Francis Heath dropped his paper, and stooped to pick it up;
certainly he found the evening hot, for his face ran with trickles of
perspiration.

"July the twenty-ninth?"

"Yes, that's the date. I am particularly anxious to know if you remember
it."

Mr. Heath wiped his neck with his handkerchief.

"I held service as usual at five o'clock."

Hartley looked at him; there was something undeniably strained in the
clergyman's eyes and voice.

"Ah, but what I am after took place later."

The Rev. Francis Heath moistened his lips and stood up.

"My memory is constantly at fault," he said, avoiding Hartley's eyes and
looking at the ground. "I would not like to make any specific statement
without--without--reference to my note-book."

Hartley stared in astonishment.

"This is only a small matter, Heath. I was trying to get round to my
point in the usual way, by giving no actual indication of what I wanted
to know. You see, if you tell a man what you want, he sometimes imagines
that what he did on another day is what really happened on the actual
occasion, and that, as you can imagine, makes our job very difficult. I
don't want to bother you, but as your name was mentioned to me in
connection with a certain investigation, I wished to test the truth of
my man's statement."

Heath stood in the same attitude, his face pale and his eyes steadily
lowered.

"It might be well for you to be more clear," he said, after a long
pause.

"Did you go down Paradise Street just after sunset?"

"I may have done so. I have several parishioners along the river bank."

"Why the devil is he talking like this and looking like this?" Hartley
asked himself, impatiently.

"I'm not a cross-examining counsel," he said, with some sharpness. "As
I told you before, Heath, it is only a very small matter."

The Rev. Francis Heath gripped the back of his chair and a slight flush
mounted to his face.

"I resent your questions, Mr. Hartley. What I did or did not do on the
evening of July the twenty-ninth can in no way affect you. I entirely
refuse to be made to answer anything. You have no right to ask me, and I
have no intention of replying."

Hartley put his hand out in dismay.

"Really, Heath, your attitude is quite absurd. I have already told one
man to-day that he was going mad; are you dreaming, man? I only want you
to help me, and you talk as if I had accused you of something. There is
nothing criminal in being seen in Paradise Street after sundown."

Mr. Heath stood holding by the back of his chair, looking over Hartley's
head, his dark eyes burning and his face set.

"Come, then," said the police officer abruptly, "who did you see? Did
you, for instance, see the Christian boy, Absalom, Mhtoon Pah's
assistant?"

The Rev. Francis Heath made no answer.

"Did you see him?"

"I will not answer any further questions, but since you ask me, I did
see the boy."

"Thank you, Heath; that took some getting at. Now will you tell me if
you saw him again later: I am supposing that you went down the wharf and
came back, shall I say, in an hour's time. Did you see Absalom again?"

The clergyman stared out of the window, and his pause was of such
intensely long duration that when he said the one word, "No," it fell
like the splash of a stone dropped into a deep well.

Hartley looked at his sleeve-links for quite a long time.

"Good night, Heath," he said, getting up, but the Rev. Francis Heath
made no reply.

Hartley went back to his bungalow with something to think about. He had
always regarded Heath as a difficult and rather violently religious man.
They had never been friends, and he knew that they never could be
friends, but he respected the man even without liking him. Now he was
quite convinced that Heath, after some deliberation with his conscience,
had lied to him, and it made him angry. He had admitted, with the
greatest reluctance, that he had been through Paradise Street, and seen
the boy, and his declaration that he had not seen him again did not ring
with any real conviction. It made the whole question more interesting,
but it made it unpleasant. If things came to light that called the
inquiry into court, the Rev. Francis Heath might live to learn that the
law has a way of obliging men to speak. If Hartley had ever been sure of
anything in his life, he was sure that Heath knew something of Absalom,
and knew where he had gone in search of the gold lacquer bowl that was
desired by Mrs. Wilder. He made up his mind to see Mrs. Wilder and ask
her about the order for the bowl; but he hardly thought of her, his mind
was full of the mystery that attached itself to the question of the
Rector of St. Jude's parish, and his fierce and angry refusal to talk
reasonably.

He threw open his windows and sat with the air playing on his face, and
his thoughts circled round and round the central idea. Absalom was
missing, and the Rev. Francis Heath had behaved in a way that led him to
believe that he knew a great deal more than he cared to say, and Hartley
brooded over the subject until he grew drowsy and went upstairs to bed.




III

INDICATES A STANDPOINT COMMONLY SUPPOSED TO REPRESENT THE PRINCIPLES OF
THE JESUIT FATHERS


It was quite early the following morning when Hartley set out to take a
stroll down Paradise Street, and from there to the Chinese quarter,
where Leh Shin had a small shop in a colonnade running east and west.
The houses here were very different to the houses in Paradise Street.
The fronts were brightened with gilt, and green and red paint daubed the
entrances. Almost every third shop was a restaurant, and Hartley did not
care to think of the sort of food that was cooked and eaten within.
Immense lanterns, that turned into coloured moons by night, but they
were pale and dim by day, hung on the cross-beams inside the houses.

Some half-way down the colonnade, and deep in the odorous gloom, Leh
Shin worked at nothing in particular, and sold devils as Mhtoon Pah sold
them, but without the same success. The door of his shop was closed, and
Hartley rapped upon it several times before he received an answer; then
a bolt was shot back, and Leh Shin's long neck stretched itself out
towards the officer. He was a thin, gaunt figure, lean as the Plague,
and his spare frame was clad in cheap black stuff that hung around him
like the garments of Death itself. Hartley drew back a step, for the
smell of _napi_ and onions is unpleasant even to the strongest of white
men, and told Leh Shin to open the door wide as he wished to talk to
him. Leh Shin, with many owlish blinkings of his narrow eyes, asked
Hartley to come inside. The street was not a good place for talking, and
Hartley followed him into the shop.

It was very dark within, and a dim light fell from high skylight
windows, giving the shop something of the suggestion of a well. Counters
blocked it, making entrance a matter of single file, and, in the deep
gloom at the back, two candles burned before a huge, ferocious-looking
figure depicted on rice-paper and stuck against the wall. It was hard to
believe that it was day outside, so heavy was the darkness, and it was a
few moments before Hartley's eyes became accustomed to the sudden
change. Second-hand clothes hung on pegs around the room, and all kinds
of articles were jumbled together regardless of their nature. On the
floor was a litter of silk and silver goods, boxes, broken portmanteaux,
ropes, baskets, and on the counter nearest the door a tiny silver cage
of beautiful workmanship inhabited by a tiny golden bird with ruby eyes.

At the back of the shop and near the yellow circle of light thrown by
the candles, was a boy, naked to the waist, and immensely stout and
heavy. His long plait of hair was twisted round and round on his shaven
forehead, and he stood perfectly still, watching the officer out of
small pig eyes. He was chewing something slowly, turning it about and
about inside a small, narrow slit of a mouth, and his whole expression
was cunning and evil. Leh Shin followed Hartley's glance and saw the
boy, and the sight of him seemed to recall him to actual life, for he
spoke in words that sounded like stones knocking together and ordered
him out of the shop. The boy looked at him oddly for a moment; then
turned away, still munching, and lounged out of the room, stopping on
the threshold of a back entrance to take one more look at Hartley.

As a rule Hartley was not affected by the peculiarities of the people he
dealt with, but Leh Shin's assistant impressed him unpleasantly.
Everything he did was offensive, and his whole suggestion loathsome.
Hartley was still thinking of him when he looked at Leh Shin, who stood
blinking before him, awaiting his words patiently.

"Now, Leh Shin, I want to ask you a few questions. Do you sell lacquer
in this shop?"

The Chinaman indicated that he sold anything that anyone would buy.

"Do you happen to know that Mhtoon Pah was looking for a bowl of gold
lacquer, and that he sent his boy Absalom here to get it?"

Leh Shin shook his head. He was a poor man, and he knew nothing.
Moreover, he knew nothing of July the twenty-ninth, he did not count
days. He had not seen the boy Absalom.

"Let me advise you to be truthful, Leh Shin," said Hartley. "You may be
called upon to give an account of yourself on the evening and night of
July the twenty-ninth."

Leh Shin looked stolidly at the mildewed clothes and tried to remember,
but he failed to be explicit, and the greasy, obese creature, still
chewing, was recalled to assist his master's memory. He spoke in a high
chirping voice, and looked at Hartley with angry eyes as he asserted
that his master had been ill upon the evening mentioned and that he had
closed the shop early, and that he himself had gone to the nautch house
to witness a dance that had lasted until morning.

"You can prove what you say, I suppose," said Hartley, speaking to Leh
Shin, "and satisfy me that the boy Absalom was not here, and did not
come here?"

Leh Shin, moved to sudden life, protested that he could prove it, that
he could call half Hong Kong Street to prove it.

"I don't want Hong Kong Street. I want a creditable witness," said
Hartley, and he turned to go. "So far as I know, you are an honest
dealer, Leh Shin, and I am quite ready to believe, if you can help me,
that you were ill that night, but I must have a creditable witness."

When he left the shop, Leh Shin looked at the fat, sodden boy, and the
boy returned his look for a moment, but neither of them spoke, and a few
minutes later the door was bolted from within, and they were once more
alone in the shadows, with the rags, the broken portmanteaux, the relics
of art, and the animal smell, and Hartley was out in the street. He was
pretty secure in the belief that Leh Shin had not seen the boy, and that
he knew nothing of the gold lacquer bowl, but he also believed that
Mhtoon Pah had been far too crafty to tell the Chinaman that anyone
particularly wanted such a treasure of art. Mhtoon Pah, or his emissary,
would have priced everything in the shop down to the most maggot-eaten
rag before he would have mentioned the subject of lacquer bowls.

There was no mystery connected with the bowl, but there was something
sickening about Leh Shin's shop, and something utterly horrible about
his assistant. Hartley wished he had not seen him, he wished that he had
remained in ignorance of his personality. He thought of him in the
sweating darkness he had left, and as he thought he remembered Mhtoon
Pah's wild, extravagant fancies, and they grew real to his mind.

It was next to impossible to discover what the truth was about Leh
Shin's illness on the night of July the 29th, and it really did not bear
very much upon the matter, unless there was no other clue to what had
become of the boy. Hartley returned to other matters and put the case on
one side for the moment. On his way back for luncheon he looked in at
Mhtoon Pah's shop. He had intended to pass, but the sight of the little
wooden man ushering him up the steps made him turn and stop and then go
in. Mhtoon Pah sat on his divan in the scented gloom, very different to
the interior of Leh Shin's shop, and when he saw Hartley he struggled to
his feet and demanded news of Absalom.

"There is none yet," said Hartley, sitting down. "Now, Mhtoon Pah, are
you quite sure that it was Mr. Heath that you saw that evening?"

"I saw him with these eyes. I saw him pass, and he was going quickly. I
read the walk of men and tell much by it. The Reverend was in a great
hurry. Twice did he pull out his watch as he came along the street, and
he pushed through the crowd like a rogue elephant going through a rice
crop. I have seen the Reverend walking before, and he walked slowly, he
spoke with the _Babus_ from the Baptist mission, but this day," Mhtoon
Pah flung his hands to the roof, "shall I forget it? This day he walked
with speed, and when my little Absalom salaamed before him, he hardly
stopped, which is not the habit of the Reverend."

"Did you see him come back? Mr. Heath, I mean?"

Mhtoon Pah stood and looked curiously at Hartley, and remained in a
state of suspended animation for a second.

"How could I see him come back?" he said, in a flat, expressionless
voice. "I went to the Pagoda, _Thakin_. I am building a shrine there,
and shall thereby acquire much merit. I did not see the Reverend return.
Besides, he might not have come by the way of Paradise Street."

"He might not."

"It is not known," said Mhtoon Pah, shaking his head dubiously, and then
rage seemed to flare up in him once more. "It is Leh Shin, the
Chinaman," he said, violently. "Let it be known to you, _Thakin_, they
eat strange meats, they hold strange revels. I have heard things--" he
lowered his voice. "I have been told of how they slay."

"Then keep the information to yourself, unless you can prove it," said
Hartley, firmly. "I want to hear nothing about it." He got up and looked
around the shop. "I suppose you haven't got the lacquer bowl since?"

"No, _Thakin_, I have not got it, neither have I seen Leh Shin, an evil
man. The Lady Sahib will have to wait; neither has she been here since,
nor asked for the bowl."

Hartley walked down the steps; he was troubled by the thought, and the
more he tried to work out some definite theory that left Mr. Heath
outside the ring that he proposed to draw around his subject, the more
he appeared on the horizon of his mind, always walking quickly and
looking at his watch.

Through lunch he went over the facts and faced the Heath question
squarely, considering that if Heath knew that the boy was in trouble,
and had connived at his escape, he would be muzzled, but there was
nothing to show that Absalom had ever broken the law. His employer,
Mhtoon Pah, was in despair at his disappearance, his record was
blameless, and he had been entrusted with the deal in lacquer to be
carried out the following morning.

Looking for Absalom was like tracing a shadow that has passed along a
street on soundless feet, and Hartley felt an eager determination seize
him to catch up with this flying wraith.

Still with the same idea in his mind, he drove along the principal
roads in his buggy, directing his way towards the bungalow where the
Rector of St. Jude's lived with Atkins, the Sapper. The house was draped
in climbing and trailing creepers, and the grass grew into the red drive
that curved in a half-circle from one rickety gate to another. He came
up quietly on the soft, wet clay, and looked up at the house before he
called for the bearer, and as he looked up he saw a face disappear
quickly from behind a window. After a few minutes the boy came running
down a flight of steps from the back, and hurried in to get a tray,
which he held out for the customary card.

"Take that away," said Hartley, "and tell the Padré Sahib that I must
see him."

"The Padré Sahib is out, Sahib."

The boy still held the tray like a collecting-plate.

"Out," said Hartley, "nonsense. Go and tell your master that my business
is important."

After a moment the boy returned again, the tray still in his hand.

"Gone out, Sahib," he said, resolutely, and without waiting for any more
Hartley turned the pony's head and drove out slowly.

Twice in two days Heath had lied, to his certain knowledge, and as he
glanced back at the bungalow, a curtain in an upper window moved
slightly as though it had been dropped in haste.

Just as he turned into the road he came face to face with Atkins,
Heath's bungalow companion, and he pulled up short.

"I've been trying to call on the Padré," he said, carelessly, "but he
was out."

"Out," said Atkins, in a tone of surprise. "Why, that is odd. He told me
he was due at a meeting at half-past five, and that he wasn't going out
until then. I suppose he changed his mind."

"It looks like it," said Hartley, dryly.

"He hasn't been well these last few days," went on Atkins, quickly,
"said he felt the weather, and he certainly seems ill. I don't believe
the poor devil sleeps at all. Whenever I wake, I can see his light in
the passage."

"That is bad," Hartley's voice grew sympathetic. "Has he been long like
this?"

"Not long," said Atkins, who was constitutionally accurate. "I think it
began about the night after the thunder-storm, but I can't say for
certain."

"Well, I won't keep you." Hartley touched the pony's quarters with his
whip. "I'm sorry I missed Heath, as I wanted to see him about something
rather important."

"I'll tell him," said Atkins, cheerfully, "and probably he'll look you
up at your own house."

"Will he, I wonder?" thought the police officer, and he set to work upon
the treadmill of his thoughts again.

There is nothing in the world so tantalizing, and so hard to bear, as
the conviction that knowledge is just within reach and that it is
deliberately withheld. Heath stood between him and elucidation, and the
more firmly the clergyman held his ground, and the more definitely he
blocked the path, the more sure Hartley became that he did so of set
purpose.

"But _why_, _why_?" he asked himself, as he drove through the Cantonment
towards Mrs. Wilder's bungalow.

Atkins got off his bicycle and handed it over to his boy as he arrived
at the dreary entrance.

"The Padré Sahib is out?" he said, in his brisk, matter-of-fact tones.

"The Padré Sahib is upstairs," said the boy, with an immovable face; and
Atkins went up quickly.

"Hallo, Heath, I met Hartley just now, and he said you were out."

Heath looked up from a sheet of paper laid out on the writing-table
before him.

"I did not feel up to seeing Hartley," he said, a little stiffly. "It is
not a convenient hour for callers, so I availed myself of an excuse."

"He told me to tell you that it was rather a pressing matter that
brought him here, and I said that I would give you his message, and that
you would probably go round to see him."

"You said that, Atkins?"

His face was so drawn and unnatural that Atkins looked at him in
surprise.

"I suppose I was right?"

"If Hartley wants to see me," said Heath, in a loud, angry voice, "or if
he wants to come bullying and blustering, he must write and make an
appointment. I have every right to protect myself from a man who asks
personal and most impertinent questions."

"Hartley, impertinent?" Atkins' eyes grew round.

"When I say impertinent, I mean not pertinent, or bearing upon any
subject that I intend to discuss with him."

The Rev. Francis Heath got up and walked towards the window, turning his
back upon the room.

"I don't mix in social politics," said Atkins, soothingly. "But at the
same time, I can't understand you, Heath. What the devil does Hartley
want to know?"

The clergyman caught at the curtain and gripped it as he had gripped the
back of his chair at the Club.

"Never ask me that again, Atkins," he said, in a low, hoarse voice.
"Never speak to me about this again."

Atkins retreated quickly from the room; there was something in the
manner of the Rev. Francis Heath that he did not like, and he registered
a mental vow to let the subject drop, so far as he, a lieutenant in His
Majesty's Royal Engineers, was concerned, and never to allude to it,
either for "fear or favour," again.




IV

INTRODUCES THE READER TO MRS. WILDER IN A SECRETIVE MOOD


Draycott Wilder was a man who hoarded his passions and concentrated them
upon a very few objects. His work came first, and his intense ambition,
and after his work, his wife. She was the right sort of wife for a man
who put worldly success first, and through the years of their marriage
had helped him a great deal more than he ever admitted. Clarice Wilder
was beautiful, and had a surface cleverness combined with a natural gift
of tact that made her an admirable hostess. She could talk to anybody
and send them away pleased and satisfied with themselves, and she had
made the best of Draycott for a good number of years. She had married
him when marriage seemed a big thing and a wonderful thing, and her
country home in Devonshire a small, breathless place where nothing ever
happened, and where life was one long Sunday at Home, and Draycott, back
from the East, had appeared as interesting as a white Othello.

For a time she received all she needed out of life, and she threw
herself into her husband's promotion-hunger; understanding it, because
she, too, wanted to reign, and it gave her an inexplicable feeling of
respect for him, for Clarice knew that had she been born a man, she,
too, would have worked and schemed and pushed herself out into the front
of the ranks. She combined with him as only an ambitious woman can
combine, and she supplied all he lacked. It filled her mind, and she
never awoke the jealousy that lay like a sleeping python in the heart of
Draycott Wilder. It was when they were in India that Clarice, for the
first time, lost her grip and allowed her senses to get the better of
her common sense, and she became for a brief time a woman with a very
troublesome heart. Hector Copplestone, a young man newly come to the
Indian Civil Service, was sent to their Punjaub station. He made Mrs.
Wilder realize her own charm, he made her terribly conscious that she
was older than him, he made her anxious and distracted and madly,
idiotically in love with him. She forgot that there were other things in
life, she put aside ambition for a stronger temptation, and she did not
care what Draycott thought or supposed.

No one ever knew what happened, but everyone guessed that Wilder had
made trouble. They left India under the same cloud of silence, and they
reappeared in Mangadone to outside eyes the same couple who had pulled
together for successful years of marriage; and if some whisper, for
whispers carry far in the East, came after them, no one regarded it, and
the Copplestone incident was considered permanently closed. Draycott
Wilder was the same silent man who was the despair of his dinner
partners, and Clarice had her old brilliancy and her old way of making
men pleased with themselves; and though some people, chiefly young
girls, described her as "hard," she represented a centre of attraction,
and her one mad year was a thing of the past.

Among the men who went to the terraced house in its huge gardens, she
always particularly welcomed Hartley, the Head of the Police. He never
demanded effort, and he had a good nature and a flow of small talk.
Nearly every woman liked Hartley, though very few of them could have
said why. He had fair, fluffy hair and a pink face; he was just weak
enough to be easily influenced, and he fell platonically in love with
every new woman he met without being in the least faithless to the
others. Mrs. Wilder had a corner in her heart for him, and he, in
return, looked upon Mrs. Wilder as a brilliant and lovely woman very
much too good for Draycott. He did not know that he took his ideas from
her whenever she wished him to do so; Mrs. Wilder, like a clever
conjurer, palmed her ideas like cards, and upheld the principle of free
will while she did so, and if she had desired to impress Hartley with
fifty-two new notions he would have left her positive in his own mind
that they were his own.

Thus, Clarice Wilder may be classed as that melodramatic type that goes
about labelled "dangerous," only she had the wit to take off the label
and to advertise herself under the guise of a harmless soothing mixture.

The bungalow in which the Wilders lived was an immense place, standing
over a terraced garden beautifully planted with flowers. Steps, covered
with white marble, led from terrace to terrace, and down to a
jade-green lake where water-lilies blossomed and pink lotus flowers
floated. Dark green trees plumed with shaded purple flowers accentuated
the massed yellow of the golden laburnums. The topmost flight of steps
led up to the house, and was flanked on either side with variegated
laurel growing in sea-green pots, and the red avenue, that took its
lengthy way from the main road, curved into a wide sweep outside the
flower-hung veranda.

Hartley arrived at the house just as Mrs. Wilder was having tea alone in
the big drawing-room, and she smiled up at him with her curious eyes,
that were the colour of granite. Without exactly knowing what her age
was, Hartley felt, somehow, that she looked younger than she was, and
that she did not do so without some aid from "boxes," but he liked her
none the less for that, and possibly admired her more. He sat down and
asked her how she was, and, as he looked at her, he wondered to think
that she had ever fainted. Clearly, she was the last woman on earth who
could be accused of Victorian ways, and to see her in her white lace
dress, dark, distinguished, and perfectly mistress of her emotions, was
to be bewildered at the memory. She treated the question with scant
ceremony, and remarked upon the fact that the night had been hot, and
that everyone had felt it.

"I've got an excellent reason for remembering the date," said Hartley
reflectively. "By the way, wasn't Absalom, old Mhtoon Pah's assistant,
once a dressing-boy or something in your establishment?"

"He was, and then he went sick, and took to this other kind of work."

"He was quite honest, I suppose?"

"Perfectly honest," said Mrs. Wilder, with a slight lift of her
eyebrows, "and a nice little boy. I hope that question doesn't mean that
you are professionally interested in his past?" she laughed carelessly.
"I am quite prepared to stand up for Absalom; he was the soul of
integrity."

Hartley put down his cup on the table.

"The boy has disappeared," he said, talking with interest, for the
subject filled his mind.

"But when, and how? I saw him quite lately."

Hartley's round, China-blue eyes fixed upon her.

"Can you tell me when you saw him?"

"One night--evening, I should say--I was out riding and I passed him
going towards the wharf, not towards the wharf exactly, but to the
houses that lie out by the end of the tram lines."

"What evening? I wish you could remember for me."

"It was the night of my own dinner-party."

"Then that was July the twenty-ninth?"

Mrs. Wilder looked at him, and bit her lip.

"Was it the twenty-ninth?" Hartley repeated the question.

"Probably it was, if you say so. I told you just now that I had Burma
head. But where has Absalom gone to?"

Hartley took up his cup again and stirred the spoon round and round.

"Forgive me for pelting you with questions, but did you see Mr. Heath
that evening?"

"Now, what _are_ you trying to get out of me, Mr. Hartley? Did Mr. Heath
tell you that he had seen me?"

Hartley stared at his feet.

"Heath has got Burma head, too, and won't tell me anything. It might
help his memory if you were able to say whether you had seen him or not
that evening."

Mrs. Wilder's fine eyes glittered into a smile that was not exactly
mirthful or pleasant.

"I don't see that I can possibly say one way or another. I often do
. . . I often do see him going about the native quarter when I ride
through, but I do not write it down in my book, so it is quite
impossible for me to say."

"Anyhow, you saw Absalom?"

"Oh, yes, I saw the boy. What a persistent man you are, and you haven't
told me a word yourself."

"Absalom was to have got a gold lacquer bowl that you ordered from
Mhtoon Pah?"

"Quite correct," laughed Mrs. Wilder with more of her usual manner.
"That old Barabbas has never sent it to me yet, either. I ordered it a
month ago. I love lacquer because it looks like nothing else, and
particularly gold lacquer."

"Well, all I can tell you is that Absalom had an order from Mhtoon Pah
to get the bowl the next morning, if it was to be got, and he went away
as usual the night of the twenty-ninth, and never appeared again. Heath
saw him, and you saw him, and that is pretty nearly all the evidence I
can collect."

"Evidence?" Mrs. Wilder's voice had a piercing note in it.

"Yes, evidence. You see the only way to trace a man is to find out
exactly who saw him last, and where."

"Ah, I see. You find out what everyone was doing, and where they were,
and you piece the bits in. It's like a jig-saw, and how very interesting
it must be."

Hartley laughed.

"Not what the other people were doing exactly, but where they were. It
is something to know that you saw the boy, but I wish you could remember
if you saw Heath."

Mrs. Wilder got up and walked to the window.

"I do hope he will be found. Did he take my lacquer bowl with him?"

"He had not got it," said Hartley, in his steady, matter-of-fact voice.

"Are you _worried_ about it?" She turned and looked across the room.
"Why should you be? If Absalom has chosen to leave, I really don't see
why he shouldn't be allowed to go in peace."

"I don't know that he did _choose_ to leave; that is just the point."

He was longing to ask her another question about Heath, and yet he did
not like to press her.

"Here are some callers," she remarked, and then, with a short laugh, "I
wonder if they were out and about that evening. If you go on like this,
Mr. Hartley, you will make yourself the most popular man in Mangadone.
Take my advice and let Absalom come back in his own way. Perhaps he is
looking for my bowl." She turned her head and glanced at some cards that
the bearer had brought in on a tray. "Show the ladies in, Gulab."

In a few minutes the room was full of voices and laughter, and Mrs.
Wilder became unconscious of Hartley. She remained so unconscious of him
that he felt uncomfortable and began to wonder if he had offended her in
any way. He looked at her from time to time, and when he got up to go
she gave him her hand as though she was only just sure that he was
really there.

The disappearance of Absalom was taking strange shapes in his mind, and
he had so far come to the conclusion that Heath knew something about
Absalom, and his visit to Mrs. Wilder added the puzzling fact to his
mental arithmetic that Mrs. Wilder knew something about Heath. It was
one thing to corner Heath, but Heath standing behind Mrs. Wilder's
protection, became formidable.

Yet it was not in the Cantonment that Hartley expected to find any clue
to the vanished Absalom: it was down in the native quarter. Down there
where the Chinese eating-houses were beginning to fill, and where the
night life was only just awaking from its slumber of the day, was where
Absalom, the Christian boy, had last been seen, and it was there, if
anywhere, that he must be searched for and found.

What possible connection could there be between an upright, Godly man
who went his austere way along the high, cold path of duty, and a woman
whose husband was madly grasping at the biggest prize of his profession?
What link could bind life with life, when lives were divided by such
yawning gulfs of space and class and race? To connect Mrs. Wilder with
Heath was almost as mad a piece of folly as to connect Absalom with the
clergyman, and yet, Hartley argued, he had not set out to do it.
Something that had not begun with any act or question of his had brought
about the junction of the ideas, and he felt like a man in a dark room
trying to make his way to the window, and meeting with unrecognizable
obstacles.

The small tinkle of the church bell attracted his attention, and,
following a sudden whim, he went into the tin building and sat down near
the door. Mr. Heath did not look down the sparsely-filled church as he
read the evening service, and he prayed with an almost violent fervour.
Certainly to-night the Rev. Francis Heath was praying as though he was
alone, and the odd imploring misery of his voice struck Hartley.--"To
perceive and know the things that we ought to do, and to have grace and
power faithfully to fulfil the same."

Heath's voice had broken into a kind of sob, the sound that tells of
strain and hysteria, but what was there in Mangadone to make a
respectable parson strained and hysterical?




V

CRAVEN JOICEY, THE BANKER, FINDS THAT HIS MEMORY IS NOT TO BE TRUSTED


Just as Draycott Wilder stood high in the eyes of the Powers that govern
the Civil Service of India, so, too, in his own way, was Craven Joicey,
the Banker, a man with a solid reputation. If you build a reputation
solidly for the first half of a lifetime, it will last the latter half
without much attention or care, and, contrariwise, a bad beginning is
frequently stronger than any reformation, and stronger than integrity
that comes too late.

Joicey had begun well, and had, as the saying goes, "made his way." He
was a large, heavy man, representative in figure and slow and careful of
speech. He kept the secrets of his bank, and he kept his own secrets, if
he had any, and was a walking tomb for confidences not known as
"tender." No one would have attempted to tell him their affairs of the
heart, but almost anyone with money to invest would go direct to Craven
Joicey. He had no wife, no child, and, as far as anyone knew, no kith or
kin, and he had no intimate friends. He had one of those strange, shut
faces; a mouth that told nothing, eyes that were nearly as
expressionless as the eyes of Mhtoon Pah, and he had no restless
movements. A plethoric man, Joicey, a man who got up and sat down
heavily, a man who looked at his business and not beyond it, and never
troubled Society. He probably knew that Heath lived in Mangadone, that
was if Heath banked with him; otherwise, he might easily not have known
it.

He knew of the Wilders. He knew what Draycott Wilder owned, and he knew
that Mrs. Wilder had a very small allowance of her own, paid quarterly
through a Devonshire bank, but more than this he neither knew nor wished
to know of them, and he never went to their house.

Joicey had not "worn well"; there was no denying that sweating years of
Burmese rains and hot weathers had made him prematurely old. His thick
hair was patched with white, and his face was flabby and yellow. Craven
Joicey was one of those men, who, if he had died suddenly, would have
made people remember that they always thought him unhealthy-looking.
There was nothing, romantic, exciting, or interesting about him; his
mind was a huge pass-book, and his brain a network of facts and figures.
He played no games, went only seldom to the Club, and knew no one in the
place better than he knew Hartley, which was little, but at any rate
Hartley dined once or twice in the year with him, and he occasionally
dined in return with the Head of the Police.

Hartley was so occupied with his trouble of mind on the subject of
Absalom that he very nearly forgot that he had invited Joicey to dinner
the following Saturday. The police had discovered nothing whatever, and
he had received another visit at his house from the curio dealer. Mhtoon
Pah, in a condition bordering upon frenzy, stated that when he had stood
on his steps in the morning, intending to go to the Pagoda to offer alms
to the priests, he had noticed his wooden effigy and gone down to look
closer at him. The yellow man pointed as was his wont, but over the
pointing hand lay a rag soaked in blood.

Mhtoon Pah, immense and splendid in his silk, had given forth wild
noises as he produced the rag, noises that reminded Hartley irresistibly
of the trumpeting of elephants, but they were terrible to hear.

"It is enough," he said, his face quivering. "This is the work of the
Chinamen. They slit his veins, _Thakin_, they are doing it slowly. The
_Thakin_ can understand that Absalom still lives, his blood is fresh and
red, it is not dead blood that runs like treacle, it is living blood
that spouts out hot, and that steams and smokes. _Thakin_, _Thakin_, I
cry for vengeance."

"I'm doing all I can, Mhtoon Pah," said Hartley, desperately. "I can't
go and arrest Leh Shin on suspicion, because there isn't a vestige of
suspicion attached to the man."

"Not after this?" Mhtoon Pah pointed to the rag that lay loathsomely on
the table.

"That may be goat's blood, or dog's blood; we can't say it is
Absalom's," objected Hartley. "Leave the horrid thing there, Mhtoon Pah,
and I will have it analysed later on."

Mhtoon Pah gasped and beat his breast.

"He was a good boy, he attended the Mission with regularity, and they
are doing terrible things. They wind wires around the finger-nails and
the toe-nails until they turn black and drop off. You do not know these
Chinamen, _Thakin_, as I know them. Have you seen the assistant of Leh
Shin?"

Hartley wished that he had not; he frequently wished that he had never
seen that man.

Mhtoon Pah bent near the Head of the Police and spoke in low, sibilant
tones:

"He is a butcher's mate, _Thakin_. He is a slayer of flesh. He kills in
the shambles. Oh, it is true. I saw him slit the mouth of a dog with his
knife for his own mirth--"

"Swine!" said Hartley.

"Why he left there and went to live with Leh Shin is unknown. He has
secrets. He knows the best mixtures of opium, he knows--"

"I don't want to hear what he knows."

"He knows where Absalom is."

"You only think that," said Hartley, roughly. "It is a dangerous thing
to make these assertions. It is only your idea, Mhtoon Pah."

The Burman groaned aloud and held the rag between his hands.

"Put that down," said Hartley. Mhtoon Pah's very agony of desire to find
the boy was almost disgusting, and he turned away from the sight. "There
is no use your staying here, and no use your coming, unless there is
more of this devil's work," he pointed to the blood-stained cloth.
"Leave the thing here, and I will see what the doctors have to say
about it."

"_Thakin_, _Thakin_," said Mhtoon Pah. "The time grows late. My night's
rest is taken from me, and the Chinaman, Leh Shin, walks the roads. I
saw him from my place at sunset. I saw him go by like a cat that prowls
when night falls and it grows dark. He passed by my wooden image of a
dancing man, and he touched him as he passed--" he gave a despairing
gesture with his heavy hands. "Oh, Absalom, Absalom, my grief is heavy!"

"He will be either found or accounted for," said Hartley, with a
decision and firmness he was far from feeling, and Mhtoon Pah, with bent
head, went away out of the room.

The rain that had held off all day began to come down in pitiless
torrents, blown in by the wind, and fighting against bolts and bars. It
ruffled the muddy waters of the river, ran along the kennels of the
Chinese quarter, drove the inhabitants of Paradise Street indoors and
soused down over the Cantonment gardens, and battered on the travelling
carriage of Craven Joicey, that came along the road, a waterproof over
the pony's back and another covering the _syce_, and Joicey sat inside
the small green box, holding the window-strings under his heavy arms.

Joicey was not a cheerful companion, and in his present mood Fitzgibbon,
the Barrister, would have suited Hartley better; but he had asked
Joicey, and Joicey was on his way, thinking about Bank business in all
probability, thinking of money lent out at interest, thinking of careful
ledgers and neat rows of figures, and certainly not in the least likely
to be thinking of the Chinese quarter, or of a person of so small
account, financially, as Absalom, the Christian native. The river or the
ships or the back lanes of Mangadone might swallow a thousand Absaloms
and make no difference to the Bank, and therefore none to Craven Joicey.

Absalom, that shadow of the night, had gone to heaven or hell, and left
no bills behind, and it is by bills that some men's memories are
recorded. He was only another grain of red dust blown about by the wind
of Fate, and though the Rector of St. Jude's might consider that, having
been marked by the sign of the Cross, he was in some way different from
the rest, neither Craven Joicey nor Clarice Wilder could be expected to
take very much heed of the fact.

All stories of disappearance, from time immemorial, have held interest,
and everyone has known of some case which has never been explained or
accounted for. Someone who got into a cab and never appeared again, and
left the impression that he had driven over the edge of the world into
space, for the cab, the cab driver, the horse, the vehicle and the
passenger inside were lost from that moment; someone who went for a
bicycle ride in England, and was found later selling old clothes in
Chicago; someone who went away by train, someone who went away by boat;
the world is full of instances, and they are always tinged with the
greatest mystery of all mysteries, because they foreshadow the ultimate
mystery that awaits the soul of man. For this universal reason, it
might be concluded that Joicey might listen with attention to the story
of Absalom, though his lowly station and his total lack of the most
necessary form of balance, very naturally made him merely a black cypher
of no special account in the eyes of a man of figures.

Certainly Craven Joicey had not worn well. Hartley noticed it as he
stood taking off his scarf in the hall, and he noticed it again as the
Banker sat sipping a sherry and bitters under the strong light of the
electric lamp. He looked fagged and tired, and though he cheered up a
little as dinner went through, he relapsed into a heavy, silent mood
again, as if he was dragged at by thoughts that had power over him.

"There is nothing the matter with you, is there, Joicey?" asked his
host. "You don't seem to be up to the mark."

"What mark?" said Joicey, with a laugh. "Up to your mark, Hartley, or my
own mark, or someone else's mark? The average mark in Mangadone is low
water. There have been a lot of defaulters this year, and even admitting
that the place is rich, there is a good deal more insolvency about than
I like or than the directors care for. It keeps me grinding and
grinding, and wears the nerves."

"By George," said Hartley, "I should have said that my own job was about
the most nerve-tattering of any. I had an interview with Mhtoon Pah this
afternoon that shook me up a bit."

"Ah, I heard that his boy has disappeared."

The door between the dining-and the drawing-room was thrown open, and
dinner announced as Joicey spoke, and the conversation took another
turn. Many things were bothering Joicey--the financial year generally, a
big commercial failure, the outlook for the rice crop--and as the meal
wore on he grew more dreary, and a pessimism that is part of some men's
minds tinged everything he touched.

"Did Rydal's disappearance affect you at all, personally?" Hartley
asked, with some show of interest.

"Not personally, but it cost the Bank close upon a quarter of a lakh."
Joicey drummed his square-topped fingers on the table. "I can't imagine
how he managed to get away."

Hartley frowned.

"I had all the landing-stages carefully watched, and the plague police
warned. He must have gone before the warrant was out, that is, if he has
ever left the country at all."

Joicey shrugged his heavy shoulders.

"In any case, the man's not much use to us, and the money has gone. I'm
not altogether sorry he got away." His eyes grew full of brooding
shadows and he sat silent, still tapping the cloth with his fingers.

"It's an odd coincidence," said Hartley, and his face grew keen again.
"Mhtoon Pah's boy, Absalom, disappeared that same night. I wish you
could tell me, Joicey, if you saw Heath that evening when you went down
Paradise Street. It was the same evening that the Bank laid their
information against Rydal, the twenty-ninth."

Joicey had just poured himself out a glass of port, and was raising it
to his lips as Hartley spoke, and the hand that held the glass jerked
slightly, splashing a little of the wine on to the front of his white
shirt. Joicey did not set the glass back on to the table, he held it
between him and the light, and eyed it, or, rather, it should be said
that he watched his own hand, and when he saw that it was quite steady
he set down the wine untasted.

"Paradise Street? I never go down there. I wasn't in Mangadone that
night," his face was dead white with a sick, leprous whiteness. "If
Heath said he saw me, Heath was wrong."

"Heath didn't say so," said Hartley. "It was the policeman on duty at
the corner who said that he had seen you."

"I tell you I wasn't in the place," said Joicey again.

Hartley coughed awkwardly.

"Well, if you weren't there, you weren't there," he said, pacifically.

"And Heath, what did Heath say?"

"I told you he said nothing, except that he had seen Absalom. I can't
understand this business, Joicey; directly I ask the smallest question
about that infernal night of July the twenty-ninth I am always met in
just the same way."

"I know nothing about it," said Joicey, shortly. "I wasn't here and I
don't know what Heath was doing, so there's no use asking me questions
about him."

The Banker relapsed into his former dull apathy, and leaned back in his
chair.

"I've had insomnia lately," he said, after a perceptible pause. "It
plays the deuce with one's nerves. I believe I need a change. This
cursed country gets into one's bones if one stays out too long. I've
forgotten what England looks like and I've got over the desire to go
back there, and so I rot through the rains and the steam and the tepid
cold weather, and it isn't doing me any good at all."

They walked into the drawing-room, Hartley with his hand on Joicey's
shoulder. The Banker sat for a little time making a visible effort to
talk easily, but long before his usual hour for leaving he pulled out
his watch and looked at it.

"It may seem rude to clear off so soon, but I'm tired, Hartley, and
shall be much obliged if I may shout for my carriage."

He looked tired enough to make any excuse of exhaustion or ill-health
quite a valid one, and Hartley was concerned for his friend.

"Don't overdo it, Joicey," he said.

"Overdo what?"

Joicey got up with the heavy lift of an old, weary man, and yet there
was not two years between him and Hartley.

"The insomnia," said Hartley.

"Good night," replied Joicey shortly, and closed the carriage-door
behind him.

He drove along the dark roads, his arms in the window-straps and his
head bent forward. The head of the Mangadone Banking Firm was suffering,
if not from insomnia, from something that was heavier than the heaviest
night of sleeplessness, and something that was darker than the dark
road, and something that was deep as the brown waters that carried
outgoing craft to sea.




VI

TELLS HOW ATKINS EXPLAINS FACTS BY PEOPLE AND NOT PEOPLE BY FACTS, AND
HOW HARTLEY, HEAD OF THE POLICE, SMELLS THE SCENT OF APPLE ORCHARDS
GROWING IN A FOOL'S PARADISE


Social life went its way in Mangadone much as it had before the 29th of
July, but Hartley was not allowed to rest and feel comfortable and easy
for very long. Mhtoon Pah waylaid him in the dark when he was riding
home from the Club, and waited for him for hours in his bungalow. Like
his own shadow, Mhtoon Pah followed him and dogged his comings and
goings, always with the same imploring tale, but never with any further
evidence. Leh Shin was officially watched, and Leh Shin's assistant was
also under the paternal eye of authority, but all that authority could
discover about him was that he led a gay life, gambled and drugged
himself, hung about evil houses, and had been seen loitering in the
vicinity of the curio shop; but, as Paradise Street was an open
thoroughfare, he had as much right to be there as any leprous beggar.

Hartley's peace of mind was soon shattered again, this time by a new
element that Hartley had not thought of, and so he was caught in another
net without any previous warning.

Atkins, the rector of St. Jude's bungalow companion, was a dry little
man, adhering to simple facts, and neither a sensationalist nor an
alarmist; therefore his words had weight. He was a small man, always
dressed in clothes a little too small, with his whole mind given up to
the subject of his profession; besides which he was religious, a
non-smoker, a teetotaller, and particular upon these points.

Being but little in the habit of going into Mangadone society, he seldom
met Hartley except at the Club, and it was there that he ran him into a
corner and asked for a word or two in private. Hartley took him out into
the dim green space where basket chairs were set at intervals, and
drawing two well away from the others, sat down to listen.

Sweet scents were wafted up on the evening air, and drowsy, dark clouds
followed the moonlike heavy wisps of black cotton-wool, drowning the
light from time to time and then clearing off again; and all over the
grass, glimmering groups of men in white clothes and women in trailing
skirts filled the air with an indistinct murmur of sound.

"It is understood at the outset," began Atkins, clearing his throat with
a crowing sound, "that what I have to say is said strictly in a private
and confidential sense. I only say it because I am driven to do so."

Hartley's basket chair squeaked as he moved, but he said nothing, and
Atkins dropped his voice into an intimate tone and went on:

"You came to see Heath one day lately, and I told you he was ill. Well,
so he was, but there are illnesses of the mind as well as of the body,
and Heath was mind-sick. I am a light sleeper, Hartley. I wake at a
sound, and twice lately I have been awakened by sounds."

"The _Durwan_," suggested Hartley.

"Not the _Durwan_. If it had been, I would not have spoken to you about
it. Heath has been visited towards morning by a man, and it was the
sound of voices that awoke me. It is no business of mine to pry or to
talk, and I would say nothing if it were not that I admire and respect
Heath, and I believe that he is in some horrible difficulty, out of
which he either will not, or cannot, extricate himself."

"Who was the man?"

Atkins ignored the question.

"I admit that I listened, but I overheard almost nothing, except just
the confused sounds of talking in low voices, but I heard Heath say, 'I
will not endure it, I am bearing too much already.' I think he spoke
more to himself than to the man in his room, but it was a ghastly thing
to hear, as he said it."

"Go on," said Hartley. "Tell me exactly what happened."

"I heard the door on to the back veranda open, and I heard the sound of
feet go along it--bare feet, mind you, Hartley--and then I went to
sleep. That was a week ago."

"And something of the same nature has occurred since?"

Atkins dried his hands with his handkerchief.

"I said something to Heath at breakfast about having had a bad night,
and he got up at once and left the table. After that nothing happened
until last night. I had been out all day, and came home dog-tired. I
turned in early and left Heath reading a theological book in the
veranda. I said, I remember, 'I'm absolutely beat, Padré; I have had
enough to-day to give me nine or ten hours without stirring,' and he
looked up and said, 'Don't complain of that, Atkins; there are worse
things than sound sleep.' It struck me then that he hadn't known what it
was for weeks, he looked so gaunt and thin, and I thought again of that
other night that we had neither of us spoken about."

"Heath never explained anything?"

"No, I never asked him to."

"What happened then?" Hartley's voice was hardly above a whisper, and he
leaned close to Atkins to listen.

"I slept for hours, fairly hogged it until it must have been two or
three in the morning, judging by the light, and then I awoke suddenly,
the way one wakes when there is some noise that is different to usual
noises, and after a moment or two I heard the sound of voices, and I got
out of bed and went very quietly into the veranda. Heath's lamp was
burning, his room is at the far end from mine, and I stood there,
shivering like a leaf out of sheer jumps. I had a regular 'night attack'
feeling over me. I heard a chair pushed back, and I heard Heath say in a
low voice 'If you come here again, or if you dog me again, I'll hand you
over to the police,' and the man laughed. I can't describe his laugh;
it was the most damnable thing I ever listened to, and I thought of
running in, but something stopped me, God knows why. 'Take your pay,'
said Heath; I heard him say it, and then I heard the door open again,
and the same sound of feet." He shivered. "They stopped outside my room,
and I caught the outline of a head, a huge head and enormous, heavy
shoulders, and then he was gone."

"Why the devil didn't you raise the alarm?" Hartley's voice was angry.
"You've got a policeman on the road. Why didn't you shout?"

"Because I was thinking of Heath," said Atkins a little stiffly. "He is
the man we have both got to think about. Some devil of a native is
blackmailing him, and Heath is one of the best and straightest men I
know. Not one item of all this mystery goes against him in my mind, but
what I want you to do, is to have the bungalow watched."

"I shall certainly do that," said Hartley with decision. "And as for
your opinion of Heath--well, it strikes me as curious that a man of good
character should be a mark for blackmail."

"I explain facts by people, not people by facts," said Atkins hotly.
"And I have told you--"

"I think it is only fair to say that you have told me something that
lays Heath under suspicion," said Hartley, slowly. "He behaved very
oddly, lately, when I asked him a simple question, and he chose to
refuse to see me when I went to his house. All that was a small matter,
but what you tell me now is serious."

"Serious for Heath, and for that very reason I particularly want him
protected. But as for suspicion, I know the man thoroughly, and that is
quite absurd." Atkins got up and terminated the interview. "It is absurd
to talk of suspicion," he said again, irritably. "I hope you will drop
that attitude, Hartley. If I had imagined for a moment that you were
likely to adopt it, I should have kept my mouth shut."

He went away, his narrow shoulders humped, and his whole figure
testifying to his annoyance, and Hartley sat alone, watching the
moonlight and thinking his own thoughts. He was interrupted by a woman's
voice, and Mrs. Wilder sat down in the chair left vacant by Atkins.

"What are you pondering about, Mr. Hartley? Are you seeing ghosts or
moon spirits? You certainly give the idea that you are immensely
preoccupied."

"Do I?" Hartley laughed awkwardly. "Well, as a matter of fact, I was not
thinking of anything very pleasant."

"Can I help?"--her voice was very soft and alluring.

"No one can, I am afraid."

She touched his arm with a little intimate gesture, and her eyes shone
in the moonlight.

"How can you say that? If I were in any sort of fix, or in any sort of
trouble, I would ask you to advise me, and to tell me what to do, before
I would go to anyone else, even Draycott, and why should you leave me
outside your worries?"

"You see, that's just it, they aren't exactly mine. If they were I
would tell you, but I can't tell you, because what I was thinking about
was connected entirely with someone else."

Mrs. Wilder's eyes narrowed, and she lifted her slightly pointed nose a
very little.

"Ah, now you make me inquisitive, and that is most unfair of you. Don't
tell me anything, Mr. Hartley, except just the name of the person
concerned. I'm very safe, as you know. Could you tell me the name, or
would it be wrong of you?"

"The name won't convey very much to you," said Hartley, laughing. "I was
thinking of the Padré, Heath. That doesn't give you much clue, does it?"

It was too dark for him to see a look that sprang into Mrs. Wilder's
eyes, or perhaps Hartley might have found a considerable disparity
between her look and her light words.

"Poor Mr. Heath, he is one of those terribly serious, conscientious
people, who go about life making themselves wretched for the good of
their souls. He ought to have lived in the Middle Ages. I won't ask you
_why_ you are thinking about him"--she got up and lingered a little, and
Hartley rose also--"but you know that you should not think of anyone
unless you want to make others think of them, too; it isn't at all safe.
I shall have to think of Mr. Heath all the way home, and he is _such_ a
gaunt, scraggy kind of thought."

"I wish I could replace him with myself," said Hartley, in a burst of
admiration.

Mrs. Wilder accepted his compliment graciously and walked across the
grass to the drive, where her car panted almost noiselessly, as is the
way of good cars, and he put her in with the manner of a jeweller
putting a precious diamond pendant into a case. He watched the car
disappear, and considered that some men are undeservedly lucky in this
life.

Hartley was nearly forty, that dangerously sentimental age, and he began
to wonder if, by chance, he had met Clarice Wilder years ago in a
Devonshire orchard, life might not have been a wonderful thing. He
called her a "sweet woman" in his mind, and it was almost a pity that
Mrs. Wilder did not know, because her sense of humour was subtle and
acute, and she would have thoroughly enjoyed the description of herself.
She could read Hartley as quickly as she could read the telegrams in the
_Mangadone Times_, and she could play upon him as she played upon her
own grand piano.

She had not asked any questions, and she knew nothing of what Atkins had
said about Heath; but her face was set and tense as she drove towards
her bungalow. She was certainly thinking very definitely, quite as
definitely as Hartley had been thinking as he watched the moonlight
playing hide-and-seek with the shadows of the palm branches and the
darkness of the trees, and her thoughts left no pleasant look upon her
face or in her eyes; and yet Hartley, on his way to the bungalow where
he lived, was thinking of her in a white dress and a shady hat, with a
fleecy blue and white sky overhead and the scent of apple-blossom in the
air.

The power of romance is strong in adolescence, but it is stronger still
when the turnstile of years is reached and there is finality in the air.
Hartley was built for platonics; Fate gave him the necessary touch of
the commonplace that dispels romance and replaces it with a kind of
deadly domesticity; and yet Hartley was unaware of the fact.

He had never thought of being "in love" with Mrs. Wilder, partly because
he felt it would be "no use," and partly because she had never seemed to
expect it from him, but as he walked along the road he began to find
that her manner had of late altered considerably. She seemed to take an
interest in him, and though she had always been his friend, her new
attitude was charged with invisible electricity.

So far as Mrs. Wilder was concerned, Hartley was to her what a sitting
hen would be to a sporting man. You couldn't shoot the confiding thing;
but you might wring its neck if necessary, or push it out of the way
with an impatient foot. She knew her power over him to a nicety, and she
knew of his secret desire for "situations," because her instinct was
never at fault; but she felt nothing more than contempt, slightly
charged with pity towards him. Hartley was a good-natured, idiotic man,
and Hartley had principles; Clarice Wilder had none herself, though she
felt that they were definite factors in any game, but she also believed
that principles were things that could be got over, or got at, by any
woman who knew enough about life to manage such as Hartley.

All the same, it was not of Hartley that she thought. She had been quite
truthful when she said that he had suggested Heath to her mind, and
that she would have to consider his gaunt face and hollow cheeks during
her drive.

If he had sat on the vacant seat beside her, the Rev. Francis Heath
could hardly have been more clearly before her eyes, and could hardly
have drawn her mind more strongly, and it was because of her thought of
him that she preserved her steady look and strange eyes.

A strong woman, a woman with character, a woman who once she saw her
way, was able to follow it faithfully, wherever it twisted, wherever it
wound, and wherever it eventually brought her. No one could picture her
flinching or turning back along a road she had set out to follow; if it
had run in blood, she would have gone on in bare feet, not picking her
steps, and yet Hartley dreamed of apple orchards and an Eve in a white
muslin dress.




VII

FINDS THE REV. FRANCIS HEATH READING GEORGE HERBERT'S POEMS, AND LEAVES
HIM PLEDGED TO A POSSIBLY COMPROMISING SILENCE


The Reverend Francis Heath was sitting in his upstairs room, for of late
he had avoided the veranda. It was the leisure hour of the day, the slow
hour when the light wanes and it is too early to call for a lamp; the
hour when memory or fear can both be poignant in tropical climates.

The house was very still, Atkins had gone to the Club and the servants
had all returned to their own quarters. Outside, noises were many.
Birds, with ugly, tuneless notes that were not songs but cries, flitted
in the trees, and the rumble of traffic on the road came up in the
evening air, broken occasionally by the shrill persistence of an exhaust
whistle or the clamour of a motor-horn, and above all other sounds the
long-drawn, occasional hoot from a ship anchored in the river highway.
There was noise, and to spare, outside, but within everything was still,
except for the chittering of a nest of bats in the eaves, and the
sudden, relaxing creak of bamboo chairs, that behave sometimes as though
ghosts sat restlessly in their arms.

The sunlight that fell into the garden and caught its green, turning it
into flaming emerald, climbed in at Mr. Heath's window, and lay across
his writing-table; it touched his shoulder and withdrew a little,
touched the lines on his forehead for a moment, touched the open book
before him, and fell away, followed by a shadow that grew deeper as it
passed. It faded out of the garden like a memory that cannot be held
back by human striving. The distances turned into shadowy blue, and from
blue to purple, until only a few flecks of golden light across the
pearl-silver told that it was gone eternally; that its hour was spent,
for good or ill, and that Mangadone had come one evening nearer to the
end of measureless Time; but the Rev. Francis Heath did not regard its
going. His face was sad with a terrible, tragic sadness that is the
sadness of life and not death, and yet it was of death and not of life
that he thought. A little book of George Herbert's poems lay open before
him and he had been reading it with a scholar's love of quaint
phraseology:

    "I made a posy, while the days ran by;
    Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie
        My life within this band.
    But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they,
    By noon, most cunningly did steal away,
        And wither'd in my hand."

He read the lines over and over again, and gave a deep, heart-broken
sigh, bending his face between his hands, and bowing his shoulders as
though under a heavy weight. His gaunt frame was thin and spare, his
black alpaca coat hung on it like a sack, and his whole attitude spoke
of sorrow. He might have been the presentment of an unwilling ghost, who
stood with the Ferryman's farthing under his palm, waiting to be taken
across the cheerless, dark waters to a limbo of drifting souls. He took
his hands from before his face and clasped them over the book, looking
out of the window to the evening shadows, as if he tried to find peace
in the very act of contemplation.

The sad things he came in daily contact with had conquered his faith in
life, though they had not succeeded in killing his trust in God's
eventual plan of redemption; and his mind wandered in terrible places,
places he had forced his way into, places he could never forget. He
suffered from all a reformer's agony, an agony that is the small
reflection of the great story of the mystic burden heavy as the sins of
the whole world, and he tried, out of the simple, childlike fancy of the
words he read, to grasp at a better mind.

Heath was one of those men who could not understand effortless faith; he
was crushed by his own lack of success, and bowed down by his own
failure. Since he could not rout the enemy single-handed, he believed
that the battle was against the Hosts of the Lord. He knew no leisure
from the war of his own thoughts, and as he clasped his hands, his face
grew tense and set, and his eyes haggard and terrible. For a moment he
sat very still, and his eyes followed the lines written by a man who had
the faith of a little child:

    "But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they,
    By noon, most cunningly did steal away."

Heath had never gathered flowers, either as a lesson to himself or a
gift for others; they hardly spoke of careless beauty to him, they were
emblems of lightness and thoughtlessness, and Heath had no time to stop
and consider the lilies of the field.

He moved suddenly like a man who is awakened from a thought heavier than
sleep, and listened with a hunted look, the look of a man who is afraid
of footsteps; he stood up, gathering his loose limbs together and
watching the door. Steps came up the staircase, steps that stumbled a
little, and if Heath had possessed Mhtoon Pah's art of reading the walk
of his fellow creatures, he would have known that he might expect a
woman and not a man.

"Mr. Heath," a low voice called in the passage, and Heath's tension
relaxed, giving place to surprise.

The voice was strange to him, and he passed his handkerchief over his
face and walked to the door, just as his name was called again, in the
same low, penetrating voice.

"Who wants me?" he asked, almost roughly, and then he saw a tall, dark
woman standing at the top of the staircase.

"Mrs. Wilder," he said in surprise, and she made a little imperious
movement with her hand.

"I did not call your servant, I came up, because I wanted to find you
alone. You are alone?"

"Certainly, I am alone."

"May I come in?"

Heath held the door open for her to pass, and she walked in, looking
around the darkening room with hard, curious eyes.

She took the chair he gave her, in silence, and sat down near the
writing-table, and, feeling that she would speak after a time, Heath
took his own place again and waited.

"I hardly know where to begin," she said, always speaking in the same
low, intent voice. "Do you recall the evening of the twenty-ninth?"

An odd spasm caught Heath's face, and he paused for a moment before he
answered.

"I do recall it."

"Perhaps you remember seeing me? I was riding along the road when I
first passed you, and you were walking."

"I remember that I did pass you then, and also that I saw you later."

Heath's sombre eyes were on her face, and his fingers touched a gold
cross that hung from his watch-chain.

"You passed me, and you passed Absalom, the Christian boy, and you have
been questioned about Absalom."

"I have," he said heavily. "Why do you ask?"

Mrs. Wilder took a quick breath.

"Because I am afraid that you may be asked again. You understand, Mr.
Heath, that I know it was the merest chance that brought you there that
evening, but, as you were there, and as Mr. Hartley has got it into his
head that you know something more than you have told him, I beg of you
to bear in mind that if you mention my name you may get me into serious
trouble. You would not do that willingly, I think?"

"I certainly would not. What motive took you there is a question for
your own conscience. It is not for me to press that question, Mrs.
Wilder."

She pressed her lips together tightly.

"I went there to see an old friend who was in great trouble."

"And yet you have to keep it secret?"

"Haven't we all our secrets, Mr. Heath?" Her voice was raised a little.
"Will you pledge me your solemn word to keep this knowledge from anyone
who asks?" She put her elbows on the table and drew closer to him.

"I will respect your confidence," he said slowly. "But is it likely that
Hartley will ask me?"

Mrs. Wilder made a gesture of denial.

"I _think_ not, but who can tell? This thing has been like lead on my
mind and will not let me rest. Oh, Mr. Heath, if you knew what I have
already paid, you would be sorry for me."

"I am sorry," he said gently. "More sorry for you than you can tell.
You, too, saw Absalom, and spoke to him?"

"He has nothing to do with what I came here about,"--her tone grew
impatient. "I only wanted to make sure that I was safe with you. It was
no little thing that drove me to come. I am a proud woman, Mr. Heath,
and I do not usually ask favours, yet I ask you now--"

"Not a favour," he said, taking her up quickly. "God knows I have every
reason to help you if I can. Does Hartley suspect you? Does he question
you? Does he try to wring admissions out of you?"

In the darkness Heath's voice rang hard and, metallic, like the voice of
a man whose thoughts return upon something that maddens him.

"He has not done so, but he has asked me questions that made me
frightened. It is a terrible thing to be afraid."

"And Joicey?" said Heath in a quiet voice. "I saw Joicey, but he did not
stop to speak to me. Has he, too, been interrogated?"

"So far as I know, he has not. But this question presses only on me.
What took you there is, I feel sure, easily accounted for, and what took
Mr. Joicey there is not likely to be a matter of the smallest
importance; it is _I_ who suffer, it is on me that all this weight lies.
If the police begin investigations they come close upon the fact that I
went there to meet a man whom my husband has forbidden me to meet. Any
little turn of evidence that involves me, any little accident that
obliges me to admit it, and I am lost,"--her voice thrilled and pleaded.

"It is you who are lost," he echoed dully. "I can understand how you
feel. If I can ease your burden or lessen the anxiety you suffer from,
you may depend upon me, Mrs. Wilder. This matter is a dark road where I,
too, walk blind, not knowing the path I follow, but, at least, I can
give you my word that under no circumstances shall I be led to mention
your name. You can be sure of that, Mrs. Wilder. If I can add your
trouble to my own burden I shall not feel its weight, but I would
counsel you to be honest with your husband. Tell him the truth."

"I will," said Mrs. Wilder, with an acquiescence that came too quickly.
"I assure you that I will, but even when I do, you see what a position
the least publicity places me in?"

Heath got up and paced the floor with long, restless strides.

"Publicity. The open avowal of a hidden thing; the knowledge that the
whole world judges and condemns, and does not understand."

"That is what I feel."

After all, he was more human than she had expected. Clarice Wilder had
looked upon the Rev. Francis as a hermit, an ascetic, whose
comprehension was limited; and her eyes grew keen as she watched his
gaunt figure.

"To be dragged down, to be accused, to be cast so low," he continued, in
his sad, heavy voice, "so low that the lowest have cause to deride and
to scorn." He stopped before her. "Is it true that I can save you from
that?"

"It is true."

She did not tell him that she had lied to Draycott; it did not appear
necessary; neither did she tell him that Draycott's memory was long and
sure and unerring.

"Then, if there is one man in all God's universe,"--Heath cast out his
arms as he spoke--"one man above all others whom you could appeal to,
could trust most entirely, that man is myself. Give me your burden, your
distress of mind, and I will take them; I cannot say more--"

"Of course, it may never be necessary for you to--to avoid telling Mr.
Hartley," broke in Mrs. Wilder quickly. Heath was getting on her nerves,
and she rose to her feet. "I cannot thank you sufficiently, and I fear
that I have upset you, made you feel my own cares too profoundly,"--her
voice grew almost tender. "I have never known such ready sympathy, but
you feel too intensely, Mr. Heath. You make my little trouble your own,
and you have made me very grateful. Are you in any trouble yourself?"

Heath stopped for a moment, an outline against the light of the window.
She thought he was going to speak, and she waited with an odd feeling of
excitement to hear what was coming, when he suddenly retired back into
his usual manner.

A light was travelling up the staircase, casting great shadows before
it, and when the boy came to the door of the Padré Sahib's room, he saw
his master saying good-bye to a tall, dark lady who smiled at him and
gave him her hand.

"Good night, Mr. Heath, I hardly know how to thank you sufficiently."

She hurried down the staircase, and as she walked out, she met Atkins
coming in on his bicycle. He jumped off as he saw her, and spoke in
surprise.

"I have just been calling on the Padré," replied Mrs. Wilder pleasantly,
as he commented with ever-ready tactlessness upon her presence in the
Compound. "One of my servants is ill; a member of his community. By the
way, do you think that Mr. Heath is quite well himself?"

"Indeed I do not think so. He overworks. I have a great admiration for
Heath."

"He must be rather depressing in the rains," she said, with a careless
laugh. "He positively gave me the shivers. I can hardly envy you boxed
up there with him. I believe he sees ghosts, and I think they must be
horrid ghosts or he couldn't look as he does."

Her car was waiting down the road, and Atkins walked beside her and saw
her get in. Mrs. Wilder was very charming to him; she leaned out and
smiled at him again.

"Do take care of the Padré," she called as she drove off.

"There goes a sensible, good-looking woman," thought Atkins, and he
thought highly of Mrs. Wilder for her visit to Heath. He said so to the
Rector of St. Jude's as they dined together, remarking on the fact that
very few women bothered about sick servants, and he was surprised at the
cold lack of enthusiasm with which Heath accepted his remark.

"That was what she said?"

"Yes, and I call it unusual in a country where servants are treated like
machines. I've never known Mrs. Wilder very well, but she is an
interesting woman; don't you think so, Heath?"

"I don't know," said Heath absently. "I never form definite opinions
about people on a slight knowledge of them."

Atkins felt snubbed, but he only laughed good-naturedly, and Heath
relapsed into silence.

Mrs. Wilder was dining out that night, and she looked so superbly
handsome and so defiantly well that everyone remarked upon her; and even
Draycott Wilder, who might have been supposed to be used to her beauty
and her wit, watched her with his slow, following look. Hartley was not
at the dinner-party, but afterwards echoes of its success reached him,
and a description of Mrs. Wilder herself that thrilled his romantic
sense as he listened.

Hartley was worried about the Padré, and he had warned the policeman to
watch the Compound at night; but all the watching in the world did not
explain the cause of these visits. There was a connection somewhere and
somehow between Heath and the missing Absalom, and Hartley wondered if
he could venture to speak to Mrs. Wilder again about the night of the
29th of July, and implore her to let him know if she had seen Heath with
Absalom.

It seemed, judging by what Atkins had heard, that Heath was paying for
silence, and Hartley disliked the idea of working up evidence against
the Padré. The more he thought of it the less he liked it, and yet his
duty and his sense of responsibility would not let him rest. Mrs. Wilder
had said that she had seen Heath and Absalom, and had then refused to
say anything more, but Hartley saw in her reserve a suggestion of
further knowledge that could not be ignored or denied.

Mhtoon Pah was quieter for the moment. He believed that Leh Shin was
being cautiously tracked, and the pointing image had held no further
traces of bloodshed upon his yellow hands. Hartley had grown to loathe
the grinning figure, and to loathe the whole tedious, difficult tragedy
of the lost boy. If it had lain in the native quarter he could have
found interest in the excitement of the chase, but if it ramified into
the Cantonment, Hartley had no mind for it. He was a man first, a
sociable, kindly man, and, later, an officer of the law.




VIII

SHOWS HOW THE CLOAK OF DARKNESS OF ONE NIGHT HIDES MANY EMOTIONS, AND
MRS. WILDER IS FRANKLY INQUISITIVE


Darkness brooded everywhere, but the gloom of night is a darkness that
is impenetrable only to our eyes because we creatures of the hard glare
of daylight cannot see in the strange clearness that brings out the
stars. Only in the houses of men real darkness has its habitation. Under
close roofs, confined within walls, shut into rooms, and lurking in
corners: there, darkness may be found, and because man made it, it has
its own special terror, as have all the creatures of man's hand. Dark,
menacing and noiseless, the shadows flock in as daylight wanes, filing
up like heavy thoughts and sad thoughts, and casting a gloom with their
coming that is not the blackness of earth's restful night.

Mrs. Wilder paced her room with the steps of a woman whose heart drives
sleep out with scorpion-whips of memory; and she went softly, for sound
travels far at night, and Draycott Wilder, in the next room, was a light
sleeper. She was thinking steadily, and she was trying to force her will
across the distance into the stronghold of Hartley's inner
consciousness.

Night brought no more rest to Mrs. Draycott Wilder than it did to Craven
Joicey, the Banker, but Joicey did not sit in the dark. Madness lies in
the dark for some minds, and he had turned on the electric light, that
showed his face yellow and weary. On the wall the lizards, awakened by
the sudden glare, resumed their fly-catching, and scuttled with a dry,
scurrying sound over the walls, breaking the silence with a perpetual
"chuck-chuck" as they chased each other. Joicey looked as though he was
dreaming evil dreams, and nothing of his surroundings was real to him.
The room became another room, the tables and chairs grew indistinct, the
face of a small _Gaudama_ on the mantel-piece became a living face that
menaced him, and the "chuck-chuck" of the lizards, the rattle of dice
falling on to a board at some remote distance miles and miles away, and
yet strangely audible to his dull ears. Still he sat there, and flashes
of fancies came and went. Sometimes he stood in an English garden, with
a far-away sunlit glimpse of glittering waters, and a cuckoo crying in a
wood of waving trees, and then he knew that he was a boy, and that he
had forgotten everything that had happened since; and then, without
warning, he was swept out of the garden and stood under Eastern trees,
lost in a wild place, with the haunting face of the image at his
shoulder. The face altered. Sometimes it was Mhtoon Pah's pointing man,
and what he pointed at was never clear. The mistiness bothered him
horribly.

The _Durwan_ outside played on a wistful little flute, thinking that his
master was asleep; he heard it, and it did not concern him; he was dead
to all outward things just then, and the flute only added to the mystery
of the dream that spun itself in his brain. He wandered in a place so
near actual things and yet so far from them, that the gigantic mistake
of it all, and the consciousness that the inner life could at times
conquer the outer life, made him fall away between the two conditions,
lost and helpless. His head nodded forward, and his lower lip dropped,
and yet his eyes were open, as he sat facing the small squatting Buddha,
whose changeless face changed only for him.

The three little flute-notes tripped out after each other with no
semblance at a tune, repeating and reiterating the sound in the dark
outside, and Joicey listened as though something of weight depended upon
his hearing steadily. The sound was the one thing that made him know
that he was real, and once it ceased, or he ceased to hear it, he would
be across the gulf and terribly lost; a mind without a body, let loose
in a world where there were no landmarks, no known roads, nothing but
windy space, and he was afraid of that place, and feared terribly to go
there.

Something shuffled on the stone veranda, another sound, and sound was of
value to Craven Joicey, since it made a vital note in the circling
numbness around him. He could hear whispering voices, and the thump of
the _Durwan's_ stick, as that musically-minded man walked round to the
back of the house, where his lighted window showed that Craven Joicey
did not sleep. Again a voice whispered, and a low sound of discreet
knocking followed.

Joicey sprang up and called out hoarsely:

"Who is it?"

"Sahib, Sahib"--the _Durwan's_ whine was apologetic. "Is the Sahib
awake?"

"Who wants me?"

"Leh Shin, the Chinaman."

Joicey wiped his face with his handkerchief and pulled open the door
with a violent movement.

"Come in," he said, trying to speak naturally. "What is it, Leh Shin?"

The Chinaman held a tweed hat in his hand and stole into the room like a
shadow.

"What now, Leh Shin?"

Joicey spoke in Yunnanese with the fluency of long habit, and even
though he was angry he kept his voice low as though he feared to be
overheard.

"The Master of Masters will speak for me," said the Chinaman, standing
before him. "All day the police stand near to my house, and at night
they do not leave it. At one word from the Master, whose speech is
constructed of gold and precious metals, they can be withdrawn, and for
that word I wait--" He made a quick gesture with his tweed cap.

"You will gain nothing by coming to my house, you swine," said Joicey,
his eyes staring and his veins standing out on his forehead. "I will see
what Mr. Hartley will do, but if you drag in my name or refer him to me
you will do yourself no good, do you hear? No good."

Leh Shin watched him passively and waited until he had finished.

"I will swear the oath," he said, blinking his eyes. "I will not speak
the name of the Master, but my doors are locked, my house is a house for
the water-rats, and until the big Lord frees me I am a poor man."

Joicey sat down heavily on a low chair.

"It shall be stopped," he said desperately. "I will see that there is no
more of this police supervision; you may take my word for it."

The Chinaman stood still, moving one foot to the other.

"In dreams the Master has spoken these promises to me before. Can I be
sure that it is not in a dream that the Master speaks again?"

"I am awake," said Joicey, bitterly. "Mr. Hartley is looking for the
boy, and if the boy were found, all search would stop,"--he eyed the
Chinaman carefully, but the mask-like face did not change.

"And the little boy? Perhaps, Ruler and King, the little boy is gone
dead."

"You ask me _that_, you devil?"

"It is for the servant to ask," said Leh Shin, dropping his lids for a
second.

"Now, get out," said Joicey, between his clenched teeth. "And if you
come here to me again, at night, I'll kill you."

"The Great One will not do that," said Leh Shin, placidly. "My
assistant waits for me. It would be known as fire is known when the
forest is dry. To-morrow or next day, if the police are gone, my little
house will be open again." He spoke the words with deep emphasis.

"Get out," said Joicey, turning away his head.

Leh Shin looked at him with a sudden, oblique glance like the flash of a
knife.

"Speak no more, Lord of men and elephants; the _Durwan_ is now outside
the door, and he listens."

"Good-night," said Joicey loudly, and he clicked off the light and went
to bed.

If the darkness was close in the large houses of the Cantonment, it was
shut into the very essence of itself in the curio shop in Paradise
Street. It hid the carved devils from one another, it obliterated the
stone monsters that no one ever bought, and which had grown to belong to
the shop itself; it dropped its black veil over the green dragons, and
the china ladies, and the silver bowls and the little ivories, hiding
everything out of sight; but it did not hide the figure outside in the
street. The little man, with his pointed headdress and short jacket, had
the clear darkness all to himself. He was just as polite by night as he
was by day, and he bowed and ushered imaginary buyers up the stone steps
with the same perpetual civility, and the same unceasing smile, that
bagged out his varnished cheeks into joviality.

Dark as it was inside the shop, it must have been darker along the
rat-burrows of stairs, and the loft-like rooms near the roof, but either
up above or down below, the scent of cassia and sandal-wood clung
everywhere inside the curio shop, smelling strongest around the glass
cases and bales of delicate silks.

Mhtoon Pah's _Durwan_ slept across the doorway, and was therefore the
only object for the attention of the little man, and likewise,
therefore, he did not point to his master, who came in, in the dead,
heavy hours before dawn. He could not have been far; there was hardly
any dust on his red velvet slippers, and he brushed what there was from
them with a careful hand. As he placed his lamp on the floor, the light
threw odd shadows up the walls, turning that of Mhtoon Pah himself into
a grotesque and gigantic mass of darkness, and when he stooped and stood
erect it jumped with a sudden living spring.

Mhtoon Pah moved about the shop on light feet. He bent here and there to
examine some of the objects closely, with the manner and gesture of a
man who loves beautiful things for their own sakes as well as for the
profit he hoped to gain from their sale. When he had twice made a tour
of inspection, he placed an alabaster Buddha in the centre of a carved
table and sat down before it. The Buddha was dead white, with a red
chain around his neck, and on his head a gold cap with long, gem-set
ears hanging to the shoulders, and Mhtoon Pah sat long in front of the
figure, swaying a little and moving his lips soundlessly. He appeared
like a man who is self-mesmerized by the flame of a candle, and his face
worked with suppressed and violent emotion; at any moment it seemed as
though he might break the silence with some awful, passion-tossed
sound.

Suddenly, he stopped in his voiceless worship, and, leaning forward
quickly, extinguished the lamp. If he had heard any sound, it was
apparently from below, for he crouched on the ground with his head close
to the teak boarding, and crawled with slow, noiseless care towards the
door. A silk curtain covered the window, hiding the interior of the shop
from the street, and, when he reached the low woodwork above which it
hung, he twitched the curtain back with a sudden movement of his hand
and raised himself slowly until his head was on a level with the glass.

Mhtoon Pah grew suddenly rigid, and the thick black hair on his head
seemed to bristle. Pressed close against the window, with only a slender
barrier of glass between them, was the face of Leh Shin, the Chinaman. A
ray of white moonlight fell across them both, and its clear radiance
lighted up every feature of the curio dealer's face, changing its brown
into a strange, ghastly pallor. For a moment they stood immovable,
staring into each other's eyes, and the shadows behind Mhtoon Pah in the
shop, and the shadows behind Leh Shin in the street, seemed to listen
and wait with them, seemed to creep closer and enfold them, seemed to
draw up and up on noiseless feet and hang suspended around them. The
moment might have endured for years, so full was it of menace and
passion, and then the man outside moved quickly and the moonlight
flooded in across the face and shoulders of the Burman.

For a second longer he remained as though fascinated, and then Mhtoon
Pah wrenched at the door and thundered back the heavy bolts. There were
flecks of foam on his lips, and his eyes rolled as he dashed through the
door and out down the steps, rending the air with cries of murder. He
was too late, the Chinaman had gone. When the street flocked out to see
what the disturbance meant, Mhtoon Pah was crouching on his steps in a
kind of fit.

"I have seen the face of the slayer of Absalom," he shrieked, when the
crowd had carried him in, and recovered him to his senses.

"Is he a devil?" asked a young Burman, in tones of joyful excitement. "A
devil with iron claws has been seen several nights lately."

"A Chinese devil," groaned Mhtoon Pah, speaking through his clenched
teeth. "One who shall yet be hanged for his crime."

"Ah! ah!" said the watchers. "He dreams that it is a man, but it is
known that a devil has walked in Paradise Street, his jaws open.
Certainly he has eaten little Absalom."

Dawn was breaking, the pale, still hour that is often the hour of death;
and a cool breeze rippled in the date palms and in the flat green leaves
of the rubber plants, and the festoons of succulent green growths that
climbed up the houses of the Cantonments, and dawn found the Rev.
Francis Heath sleeping quietly. He was lying with one arm under his
head, and his worn face in almost child-like repose. Wherever he was,
sleep had carried him to a place of peace and refreshment. When he awoke
he would have forgotten his dream, but for the moment the dream
sufficed, and he rested in the circle of its charm.

All the time that we are young and careless and happy, we are building
retreats for memory that make harbours of rest in later years, when the
storms come with force. All the old things that did not count, come back
to calm and to restore. The school-room, where the light flickered on a
special corner of the ceiling, telling the children to come out and
play; the tapping of the laurels outside the church windows, and the
musty smell of red rep cushions along the pew where the hours were very
slow in passing; the white clover in the field behind the garden, got at
easily through a hole in the privet hedge. The play of light and shadow
over the hills of home, the dusk at nightfall, and the homely cawing of
rooks. All the delicious things that went with the smell of ripe
strawberries under nets, where thieving birds fluttered until the
gardener let them free again; and the mystery of sparks flying up the
chimney when the winter logs blazed. Every simple joy is stored away in
some lumber corner of the minds of men, and when sleep comes, sometimes
the old things are taken out again.

The Rev. Francis Heath, like the rest of the world, had his own secret
doorway that led back to wonderland, and it may have been that he was
far away from Mangadone in this child-world which is so hard to find
again, as he slept, and the outside world grew from grey to green, and
from green to misty gold. The sunlight flamed on the spire of the
Pagoda, it danced up the brown river and threw long shadows before its
coming, those translucent shadows that no artist has ever yet been able
to paint. It turned the mohur trees blood-red, and the grass to shining
emerald green, and Mangadone looked as though it had just come fresh
from the hands of its Creator.

Mhtoon Pah, recovered from his fit, was in his shop early, and he
himself went out to cleanse the effigy outside with a white duster, and
to set his wares in order. It was a good day for sales, as a liner had
come in and brought with it many rich Americans, and Mhtoon Pah was glad
to sell to such as they. His stock-in-trade was beautiful and
attractive, and in the centre of the table, where the unset stones
glittered and shone on white velvet, there stood a bowl, a gold lacquer
bowl of perfect symmetry and very great beauty. He poised it on his
hands once or twice and examined it carefully. As it was already sold it
was not to remain in the curio shop, but Mhtoon Pah was a careful man,
and he desired that Mrs. Wilder should fetch it herself; besides, he
liked her car to stand outside his shop, and he liked her to come in and
look at his goods. Very few people who came in to look, went away
without having bought several things they did not in the least want.
Mhtoon Pah knew exactly how to lure by influence, and he knew that Mrs.
Wilder could no more turn away from a grey-and-pink shot silk than Eve
could refuse the forbidden fruit.

He spread out a sea-blue Mandarin's coat, embroidered with peaches, and
small, crafty touches of black here and there, and looked at it with the
loving eye of a connoisseur. His whole shop was a fountain of colour,
and he was not unworthy of it in his silk petticoat. A ray of sunlight
fell in through the door and touched a few threads of gold in the coat
as Mhtoon Pah hung it up to good advantage, and turned to see a customer
come in. It was the Rev. Francis Heath; and Mhtoon Pah's face fell.
"Reverends" were not good buyers, specially when they had not any wives,
and Mr. Heath took no notice of the attractive display as he stood,
black and forbidding, in the centre of the shop.

"I have come here, Mhtoon Pah, to ask for news of Absalom," he said,
meeting his eyes forcefully. "Where is he?"

Mhtoon Pah bowed low, as befitted the dignity of his guest, who was,
after all, a _Hypongyi_, even though he wore no yellow robes.

"It is unknown," he said, in a heavy voice. "The Reverend himself might
know, since the Reverend saw my little Absalom that night."

"You _must_ have suspicions?"

Mhtoon Pah's face worked violently.

"Leh Shin," he whispered. "Look there for what is left."

Heath retreated before his fury.

"You yourself sent the boy there."

"_Wah! Wah!_ I sent him and he did not return."

"What are you talking about?" said the fresh, gay voice of Mrs. Wilder.
"Where is my lacquer bowl, Mhtoon Pah?" She came in, bright as the
morning outside, and smiled at the Rev. Francis Heath. "So you have got
it for me."

"I did not get it, Lady Sahib," said Mhtoon Pah. "It came here, how I
know not. I found it outside my shop in the care of the wooden image
when I went to dust his limbs this morning."

Mrs. Wilder laughed.

"In that case I shall not have to pay for it. But what do you mean,
Mhtoon Pah?"

"It is blood money," said Mhtoon Pah, with a wild gasp. "Only one man
knew of the bowl, only one man could have put it there. I shall tell
Hartley Sahib; the _Thakin_ will strike surely and swiftly."

"He will do nothing of the kind," said Mrs. Wilder, with a quick look at
Heath. "Give me my bowl, Mhtoon Pah; you are letting yourself dream
foolish things. Absalom"--she tapped the polished floor with her
well-shaped foot--"will come back and explain everything himself, and
then--whoever is responsible--will bear the penalty."

"They have tied his head to his elbows, and set snakes to sting him,"
said Mhtoon Pah. "This have they done, and worse things, Lady Sahib."

Mrs. Wilder shivered.

"Give me my bowl, you horrible old man. Absalom is blacking boots in a
New York hotel, weeks ago.--Ah! what a coat! Are you buying anything,
Mr. Heath?"

"I am going to the school," he answered slowly.

"Then let me drive you there. Send me up the Mandarin's coat, Mhtoon
Pah, and I will haggle another day."

Heath followed her reluctantly down the steps. He wished she had not
made a point of taking him in her motor, but he felt instinctively sorry
for her, which fact, had she known it, would have surprised and
affronted her.

"Will you come and dine with us one night?" she asked, looking at him
with her fine eyes; "it would give us great pleasure, and I do not think
you have met my husband."

"I rarely do dine out," said Heath, staring before him as the car backed
round in the limited space of Paradise Street.

"Then make this an exception. I won't ask you to a function, just a
quiet little family party."

"You are very kind."

He was still abstracted, and hardly seemed to hear her, and, when he got
out and shut the door, she leaned from the window, smiling like weary
royalty.

"I will write and arrange an evening later on. It is a promise, Mr.
Heath."

"I will come," he replied, in the same preoccupied voice, as he raised
his battered _topi_.

"What has he been doing?" she asked herself, in surprise, and again and
again she put the same question to herself, not only that morning, but
often, later on, and with ever-increasing curiosity.




IX

MRS. WILDER IS PRESENTED IN A MELTING MOOD, AND DRAYCOTT WILDER IS
FORCED TO RECALL THE LINES COMMENCING "A FOOL THERE WAS"


It was a bright morning with a high wind blowing and a breath of
freshness in the air that has a charm to inspire a better outlook upon
life. Everywhere it made itself felt in Mangadone, and like Pippa in the
poem, the wind passed along, leaving everything and everybody a little
better for its coming. It passed through the open veranda of the huge
hospital, and touched the fever patients with its cool breath; it
hurried through the Chinese quarter, blew along Paradise Street, dusting
the gesticulating man, and went on up the river, pretending to make the
brown water change its muddy mind and run backwards instead of forwards.
It paid a little freakish attention to Mrs. Wilder's dark hair, and it
cooled the back of Hartley's neck, as they rode along together, by the
way of a lake.

They had met quite accidentally, and Hartley, who had been vaguely
wishing for an opportunity to speak to Mrs. Wilder, seized upon it and
offered himself as her escort. She agreed with complimentary readiness,
and they turned along a wooded road, where the shadows were deep and
where Hartley felt the gripping hands of romance loosen his
heart-strings.

Mrs. Wilder listened to him, or appeared to do so, which is much the
same in effect, and Hartley was not critical. She was a good listener,
as women who have something else to think about often are; and so they
rode along the twisting path, and the wind sang in the plumes of the
bamboo trees, and Hartley believed that it sang a romantic lyric of
platonic admiration, exquisitely hinted at by a tactful man, and
properly appreciated by a very beautiful woman.

"By the way," she said carelessly, "have you found that wretched little
Absalom yet? What a bother he has been since he took it into his head to
go off to America, or wherever it is he went to."

"I am glad you mentioned him," said Hartley, his face growing suddenly
serious. "I have a question or two that I want very much to ask you."

"A question or two? That sounds so very legal. Really, Mr. Hartley, I
believe you credit me with having Absalom's body hanging up in one of my
_almirahs_. Honestly, don't you really believe that I had a hand in
putting him out of the way?"

She laughed her hard little laugh, and shot a look at him over her
shoulder.

"You do know something, some little thing it may be, but something that
might help me."

"About Absalom, or about someone else?"

"About whoever you saw him with."

Hartley pushed his pony alongside of hers, but her face revealed
nothing, and was quite expressionless.

"Whoever I saw him with?" she echoed reflectively. "Ah, but it is so
long ago, Mr. Hartley, I can't even remember now whether I was out or
not that evening."

"You are only playing with me," said Hartley a little irritably. "The
policeman on duty at the cross-roads below Paradise Street saw you."

Her face became suddenly so drawn and startled that Hartley regretted
his words almost as he spoke them.

"Wait a minute, Mr. Hartley," she said, in a strained, hard voice. "You
have to explain to me why you have asked your men questions connected
with me."

"I did not ask questions; I was told."

She pulled up her pony, and, turning her head away from him, looked out
silently over the dip of ground below them. Hartley did not break her
silence. He saw that he had come close to some deep emotion, and he
watched her curiously, but Mrs. Wilder, even if she was conscious of his
look, appeared quite indifferent to it. He could form no idea along what
road her silent concentration led her; but he knew that she pursued an
idea that was compelling and strong. He knew enough of her to know that
even her silence was not the silence that arises out of lack of subject
for talk, but that it meant something as definite and clear as though
she spoke direct words to him.

The Head of the Police would have given much at that moment to have
been able to penetrate her thoughts, but he only stared at her with his
blue eyes a little wider open than usual, and waited for her to speak.
She looked before her steadily, but not with the eyes of a woman who
dreams; Mrs. Wilder was thinking definitely, and while Hartley waited,
her mind travelled at speed across years and came to a halt at the
moment where she now found herself, and from that moment she looked out
forcefully into the future.

Usually, in the tragic instants of life there is very little time for
thought before the need for action forces the will, with relentless
hands. Clarice Wilder knew as well as she knew anything that her
position was one of some peril, and that much more than she could weigh
or measure at that moment lay beyond the next spoken word. She was
telling herself to be careful, steadying her nerve and reining in a
desire to pour out a flood of circumstantial evidence, calculated to
convince the Head of the Police.

If there is one thing more than another that the man or the woman driven
against the ropes should avoid, it is prolixity; the snare that catches
craft in its own net. Clarice Wilder desired to be overpowering,
redundant and extreme in the wordy proof of her innocence of purpose
that evening of July the 29th, but she held back and waited steadfastly
until she was quite sure of herself again, and then she turned her head
and glanced at Hartley with a smile.

"How silent you are," she said gently.

Hartley flushed and looked self-conscious.

"To be quite candid, that was what I was thinking of you," he replied
awkwardly.

"What were we saying?" went on Mrs. Wilder. "Oh, of course, I remember.
You thought I could tell you something about poor Mr. Heath, didn't you?
I only wish I could, but it was so long ago. I do remember the evening.
It was very hot and I rode along by the river to get some fresh air,"
her eyes grew hazy. "I can remember thinking that Mangadone looked as if
it was a great ball of amber, with the sun shining through it, but as
for being able to tell you what Mr. Heath was doing, or who he was with,
it is impossible. You should have pinned me down to it the day you
called on me, when this troublesome little boy first went off." She
gathered up the reins, and Hartley mounted reluctantly. "I am so sorry.
I would love to be able to help you, but I cannot remember."

If Hartley had been asked on oath how it was that Mrs. Wilder had led
him clean away from the subject under discussion, to something
infinitely more satisfying and interesting, he could not have sworn to
it. They loitered by the road and came slowly back to the bungalow,
where they parted at the gate, and he watched her go in, hoping she
might turn her head, but she did not, and Hartley took his way towards
his own house and thought very little of Absalom or the Rev. Francis
Heath. One thing he did think of, and that was that Mrs. Wilder had
looked at him earnestly, and said that she wished he was not "mixed up"
in anything likely to bring uneasiness to the mind of the Rector of St.
Jude's Church. "Mixed up" was a curious way of expressing his connection
with the case, but Hartley felt that he knew what she meant. He pulled
at his short moustache and wished with all his heart that he really did
know; but all the wishes in the world could not help him out of a
professional dilemma.

Mrs. Wilder had not looked round, though she very well knew that Hartley
was waiting and hoping that she would, and once she had turned the first
bend she touched the pony with her heel and cantered up the hill,
throwing the reins to the _syce_ who came in answer to her impatient
call.

"Idiot," she said, as she shut the door of her room and flung her _topi_
on the bed, and she repeated the word several times with increasing
animosity and vigour. She hated Hartley at that moment, and felt under
no further obligation to hide her real feelings; and then Mrs. Wilder
sat down and thought hard.

The mental power of exaggerating danger is limitless, and she could not
deny that her fear was playing tricks with her nerves. She knew that she
had done creditably under the strain of acute nervous tension, but she
felt also that much more of the same thing would be unendurable.

Draycott came in to luncheon, and she was there to receive him, but even
to his careless eye, Clarice was oddly abstracted, and he glanced at her
curiously, wondering what it was that occupied her mind and made her
frown as she thought.

She could not get away from the grip of her morning interview. Try as
she would, she could not shake it off. It caught her back in the middle
of her talk, made her answer at random, and held her with a terrible
power. She considered that there were a thousand other things she might
have said or done, a hundred ways by which she might have appealed to
Hartley, and yet her common sense told her that the less she said on the
subject the better it would be, if, in the end, the Rev. Francis Heath
was led into the awful pitfalls of cross-examination. Anyone may forget
and recall facts later, but to state facts that may be used as evidence
is to stand handcuffed before inexorable justice, and Mrs. Wilder had
left her hands free.

"Is anything the matter?" Draycott jerked out the question as he got up
to leave the room. "You seem rather silent."

Clarice laughed, and her laugh was slightly forced.

"I went for a ride this morning, and met Mr. Hartley. He is the most
exhausting man I ever met."

"I hope you told him so," said Wilder shortly. "He's about here
frequently enough, even though he _does_ bore you."

Something in his voice made her eyes focus him very clearly and
distinctly.

"I have a very good mind to tell him," she said easily, "but he is
blessed with a skin that would turn the edge of any ordinary hatchet; he
would think I was merely being 'funny.'"

"It's an odd fact," said Draycott with a sneer in his eyes, "that
however much a woman complains of a man's stupidity, she will let him
hang about her, and make a grievance of it, until she sees fit to drop
him. When that moment arrives she can make him let go, and lower away
all right. Just now Hartley is hanging on quite perceptibly, and if it
entertains you to slang him behind his back, I suppose you will slang
him, but he won't drop off before you've done with him, Clarice, if I
know anything of your methods." Her face flushed and she began to look
angry. "Mind you, I don't object to Hartley. As you say, he's a fool, a
silly, trusting ass, the sort of man who is child's-play to a girl of
sixteen. If you must have a string of loafers to prove that your
attractions outwear _anno domini_, I must accept Hartley, and other
Hartleys, so long as you continue to play the same game. _Hartleys_, I
said, Clarice."

There was no doubt about the emphasis he laid upon the name.

"You flatter Mr. Hartley considerably," she said, but her voice was
conciliatory and her laugh nervous.

"He represents a type; a type that some married men may be thankful
continues to exist. God!" he broke out violently, "if he could hear you
talk of him, it would be a lesson to the fool, but he won't hear you. No
man ever does hear these things until the knowledge comes too late to be
of any use to him. You have got to have your strings"--he shrugged his
shoulders--"because your life isn't here, in this house; it is at the
Club, and at dinners and races and so on, and to be left to your
husband is the beginning of the end. Don't deny it, Clarice, it's no
earthly use. Women like you have your own ideas of life, I suppose, and
I ought to be thankful they're no worse."

He stood by the door all the time he spoke, and his colourless face and
pale eyes never altered.

"You're talking absolute nonsense," said Mrs. Wilder, preserving an
amiable tone. "We _have_ to entertain, Draycott, and you can't round on
me for what I have done for years. It has helped you on, and you know
it."

"I wasn't talking of that," he said drearily. "I was talking of you.
You're getting old, for a woman, Clarice, and when you're worried, as
you are to-day, you show it; though how an imbecile like Hartley got at
you to the extent of making you worried, I don't pretend to guess."

"Old," she said angrily. "You aren't troubling to be particularly
polite."

"No, I'm damnably truthful; just because it makes me wonder at you all
the more. You can go on smiling at any number of idiots, because you
must have the applause, I suppose. You don't even believe in it--_now_."

His allusion was definite, and Mrs. Wilder felt about in her mind for
some way to change the conversation. Quagmires are bad ground for
walking, and she was in a hurry to reach _terra firma_ again. She came
round the table and slipped her arm through his.

"After all these years. Draycott--be a little generous."

If she had fought him, some deep, hidden anger in his cold heart would
have flared up, but her gesture softened him and he patted her hand.

"I know," he said slowly. "Only I can't quite forget. I simply can't,
Clarice."

She smiled at him and touched his face with a light hand.

"Shall I tell you why? Because even if I am old--and thirty-six isn't so
very dreadful--you are still in love with me."

She went with him to the door and smiled as he drove away, smiled and
waved as he reappeared round a distant bend, and watched him return her
signal, and then she went back into the large drawing-room and her face
grew grey and pinched, and she sat with her chin propped on her hands,
thinking.

She had proved that there are more fools in the world than those who go
about disguised as Heads of Police, and had added another specimen to
the general list, but she found no mirth in the idea as she considered
it.




X

IN WHICH CRAVEN JOICEY IS OVERCOME BY A SUDDEN INDISPOSITION, AND
HARTLEY, WITHOUT LOOKING FOR HIM, FINDS THE MAN HE WANTED


It seemed to Hartley that Fate had dealt very hardly with him. He was
interested in the case of the boy Absalom, and he felt that the
possibility of clearing it up was well within reach, and then he found
himself face to face with an unpleasant and painful duty.

All his gregarious sociable nature cried out against any act that would
cause a scandal in Mangadone, the magnitude of which he could hardly
gauge but only guess at; and yet, wherever he went, the thought haunted
him. His feelings gave him no rest, and he remained inactive and
listless for several days after his ride with Mrs. Wilder. If she had
told him that she implored him personally to drop the case he could not
have felt more certain that she desired him to do so. She worked
indirectly upon his feelings, a much surer way with some natures than a
direct appeal, and the thought brought something akin to misery into the
mind and heart of the police officer.

Absalom had gone, leaving no visible footprint to indicate whither he
had vanished, but the inexorable detail of circumstance after
circumstance led on to a very definite conclusion. The wooden figure
outside the curio dealer's shop pointed up his master's steps, and did
no one any wrong, but the awful fixed finger of changeless fact
indicated the creeper-covered bungalow of the Rev. Francis Heath.

Hartley sat in his room, his elbows on the writing-table, and stared out
before him. A sluicing shower had come up suddenly, obscuring all the
brightness of the day, and the eaves of the veranda dripped mournfully
with a sound like the patter of a thousand tiny feet; the patter sounded
like the falling of tears, and he wondered if Heath, too, listened to
the light persistent noise, and read into it the footsteps of departing
hopes and lost ideals, or merely all the terrible monotonous detail that
preceded an act that was a crime.

Hartley had dealt considerably with criminal cases, but never with
anything the least like the case of the boy Absalom, and the
speculations that came across his mind were new to him. He realized that
a criminal of the class of the Rev. Francis Heath is a criminal who is
driven slowly, inch by inch, into action, and each inch given only at
the cost of blood and tears. It was little short of ghastly to consider
what Heath must have gone through and suffered, and what he still must
suffer, and must continue to suffer as he went along the dark loneliness
of the awful road into which he had turned.

People who have pity and to spare for the murdered body, or for the dupe
who has suffered plunder, think very little of the agony of mind and
the horror of the man who has held a good position, secure and honoured,
and who falls into the bottomless abyss of crime and detection. Hartley
had never considered it before. He was on the side of law and order, and
he was incapable of even dimly visualizing any condition of affairs that
could force him into illegal action, and yet he felt in the darkness
after some comprehension of the mind of the Rector of St. Jude's Parish
Church.

The rain passed over, and the veranda was crossed with strips of yellow
sunlight, the pale washed sunlight of a wet evening, and still the drip
from the eaves fell intermittently with its melancholy noise, so softly
now, as hardly to be heard, and Hartley got up, and, putting on his hat,
walked across the scrunching wet gravel, and out on to the road, making
his way towards the Club.

Far away, gleams of light lay soft over the trees of the park, the green
sad light that is only seen in damp atmospheres. There was no gladness
in the day, only a sense of deficiency and sorrow, even in its lingering
beauty; and the lake that reflected the trees and the sky was deadly
still, with a brooding, waiting stillness. Hartley stopped as he went
towards the further gates of the park, and watched the glassy
reflections with troubled eyes. No breeze touched the woods into
movement, and the long, yellow bars of evening light were full of dim
stillness. The very lifelessness of it affected Hartley strangely.
Except where, here and there, a flash of the low sunset caught the
water, the whole prospect was motionless, and he stood like a man
spellbound by the mystery of its silence.

Hartley had chosen the less frequented road through the Park, and there
was no one in sight when he had stopped to look at the pale sheet of
water with its mirrored reproduction of tree and sky. It held him
strangely, and he felt a curious tension of his nerves, as though
something was going to happen. The thought came, as such thoughts do
come, out of nowhere in particular, and yet Hartley waited with a sense
of discomfort.

When he turned away angry at his own momentary folly, he stooped and
picked up a stone and threw it into the motionless beauty of the water,
breaking it into a quick splash, marring the clearness, and confusing
the straight, low band of gold cloud which broke under the widening
circles. As he stooped, a man had come into sight, walking with a slow,
heavy step, his eyes on the ground and his head bent. He came on with
dragging feet and a dull, mechanical walk, the walk of a man who is
tired in body and soul. He did not look at the lake, nor did he even see
Hartley, who turned towards him at once with sudden relief.

When Hartley hailed him cheerfully, Joicey stopped dead and looked up,
staring at him as though he were an apparition. He took off his hat and
wiped his forehead.

"Where did you spring from, Hartley?" he asked. "I did not see anyone
just now." There was more irritation than warmth in his greeting of the
police officer.

"I was moonstruck by the edge of that confounded lake. It was so still
that it got on my nerves."

"Nerves," said Joicey abruptly. "There's too much talk of nerves
altogether in these days."

Joicey, like all large men with loud voices, was able to give an
impression of solidity that is very refreshing and reviving at times,
but, otherwise, Joicey was not looking entirely himself. He passed his
handkerchief over his face again and laughed dully.

"You're going to the Club, I suppose?"

"I was going there, but now I'll join you and have a walk, if I may.
It's early for the Club yet."

He turned and walked on beside the Banker, who appeared, if anything,
less in the humour for conversation than was usual with him. They left
the lake behind them, now a pallid gleam flecked with wavering light in
a circle of deep shadows that reached out from the margin.

"Any news?" asked Hartley without enthusiasm.

"Not that I have heard."

Silence fell again, and they walked out on to the road. Pools of
afternoon rain still lay here and there in the depressions, but Joicey
took no heed of them, and splashed on, staining his white trousers with
liquid mud.

"By the way," he said, clearing his throat as though his words stuck
there, "have you heard anything more in connection with the
disappearance of that boy you were talking of the other evening?"

Hartley did not reply for a moment, and just as he was about to speak,
Mrs. Wilder's car passed, and Mrs. Wilder leaned forward to smile at the
Head of the Police; a small buggy followed with some more friends of
Hartley's, and then another car, and the road was clear again.

"I believe I am on the right track, but I don't like it, Joicey. I'm
damned if I do."

"Why not?"

"It comes too close to home,"--Hartley spoke with a jerk. "A hateful
job--I thought I'd tell you--" He spoke in broken sentences, and his
words affected the Banker very perceptibly.

"Can't you drop it?"

Joicey came to a standstill, and his voice was lowered almost to a
whisper.

"I wish to Heaven I could, but it's a question of duty,"--he could
hardly see Joicey's face in the gathering gloom. "I suppose you guess
what I'm driving at, Joicey, though how you guess, I don't know."

"I think I'll say good night here, Hartley,"--the Banker's voice was
unnatural and wavering. "I can't discuss it with you. It's got to be
proved," he spoke more heatedly. "What have you got? Only the word of a
stinking native. I tell you it's monstrous." He stopped and clutched
Hartley's arm, and seemed as though he was staggering.

"What has come over you, Joicey; are you ill?"

"I'll sit down here for a moment,"--Joicey walked towards a low wall.
"Sometimes I get these attacks. I'm better after they are over. Better,
much better. Leave me here to go back by myself, Hartley. You need have
no fear, I'm over it now; I'll rest for a little and then go my way
quickly. Believe me, I'd rather be alone."

Very reluctantly, Hartley quitted him. He felt that Joicey was ill, and
might even be beginning the horrible phase of "breaking up," which comes
on with such fatal speed in a tropical climate. He went back after he
had gone a mile along the road, but Joicey was no longer there. It was
too late to think of going to the Club, for the road that Joicey and
Hartley had followed led away from the residential quarter of Mangadone,
and he disliked the idea of going back to his own bungalow and waiting
through the dismal hour that lies across the evening between the time to
come in and the time to dress for dinner.

Had there been a friendly house near, Hartley would have gone in on the
chance of finding someone at home, but as there was not, he made the
best of existing circumstances and took his way along the road towards
his own bungalow. He could not deny that his walk with Joicey had only
served to depress his spirits, and he was sorry to think that his friend
was so obviously in bad health. The world seemed an uncomfortable place,
full of gloomy surprises, and Hartley wished that he had a wife to go
back to. Not a superb being like Mrs. Wilder, who was encircled by the
halo of High Romance, but just an ordinary wife, with a friendly smile
and a way of talking about everyday things while she darned socks.
Somewhere in his domestic heart Hartley considered sock-mending a
beautiful and symbolic act, and yet he could not picture Mrs. Wilder
occupied in such a fashion.

A man with a wife to go back to is never at the same loose end as a man
who has no need ever to be punctual for a solitary meal, and Hartley
walked quickly because he wanted to get clear of his depression, rather
than for any reason that compelled him to be up to time.

The gathering darkness drew out the flare over the city, and, here and
there, lamps dotted the road, until, turning up a short cut, he was into
the region of trams once more. The lighted cars, filled with gay Burmese
and soldiers from the British Regiment, and European-clad, dark-skinned
creatures of mixed races, looked cheerful and encouraged to better
thoughts. Hartley crossed the busy thoroughfare below the Pagoda steps
and went on quickly, for he recognized the outline of Mhtoon Pah on his
way to burn amber candles before his newly-erected shrine. He was in no
mood to talk to the curio dealer just then, and he avoided him carefully
and plunged down a tree-bowered road that led to the bridge, and from
the bridge to the hill-rise where his own gate stood open.

It pleased him to see that lamps were lighted in the house, and he felt
conscious that he was hungry, and would be glad of dinner; he made up
his mind to do himself well and rout the tormenting thoughts that
pursued him, and to-morrow he would see Francis Heath and have the whole
thing put on paper once and for all. He even whistled as he came along
the short drive and under the portico, where a night-scented flower
smelt strong and sweet. His boy met him with the information that there
was a Sahib within waiting. A Sahib who had evidently come to stay, for
a strange-looking servant in the veranda rose and salaamed, and sat down
again by his master's kit with the patience of a man who looks out upon
eternity.

Hartley hardly glanced at the servant. Visitors, tumbling from anywhere,
were not altogether unusual occurrences. Men on the way back from a
shoot in the jungles of Upper Burma, men who were old school friends and
were doing a leisurely tour to Japan and America, men of his own
profession who had leave to dispose of; all or any of these might arrive
with a servant and a portmanteau. Whoever it was, Hartley was
predisposed to give him a welcome. He had come just when he was wanted,
and he hurried in, a light of pleasure in his blue eyes.

Near the lamp, a book of verses open on his knee, sat Hartley's
unexpected guest. He was slim, dark, and vital, but where his arresting
note of vitality lay would have been hard to explain. No one can tell
exactly what it is that marks one man as a courageous man, and another
as a coward, and yet, without need of any test, these things may be
known and judged beforehand. The man whose eyes followed the lines:

    "They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
    The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep"--

was as distinctive as he well could be, and yet his face was not
expressive. His dark, narrow eyes were dull, and his finely-cut features
small and perfect, rather than bold and strong; his long hands were the
hands of a woman more than those of a man, and his figure was slight to
boyishness.

When Hartley let his full joy express itself in husky, cheery words of
surprise, his visitor said very little, but what he did say was spoken
in a pleasant, low voice.

"Coryndon," said Hartley again. "Of all men on earth I wanted to see you
most. You've done what you always do, come in the 'nick.'"

Coryndon smiled, a languid, half-amused gleam of mirth.

"I am only passing through, my job is finished."

"But you'll stay for a bit?"

"You said just now that I was here in the 'nick'; if the nick is
interesting, I'll see."

"I'll go and arrange about your rooms," said Hartley, and he appeared
twice his normal size beside his guest, as a St. Bernard might look
standing by a greyhound. "We will talk afterwards."

Coryndon watched him go out without change of expression, and, sliding
back into his chair, took up his book again.

    "They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
    The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep."

Coryndon leaned back and half closed his eyes; the words seemed potent,
as with a spell, and he called up a vision of the forsaken Palace where
wild things lived and where revels were long forgotten--solitude and
ruin that no one ever crossed to explore or to see--with the eyes of a
man who can rebuild a mighty past. Solitude in the halls and marble
stairways, ruin of time in the fretted screens, and broken cisterns
holding nothing but dry earth. Nothing there now but the lion and the
lizard, not even the ghost of a light footfall, or the tinkle of glass
bangles on a rounded arm.

Coryndon had almost forgotten Hartley when he came back, flushed and
pleased, and full of a host's anxiety about his guest's welfare.

"I hope you haven't been bored?"

"No," said Coryndon, touching the book, "I've been amusing myself in my
own way," and he followed Hartley out of the room.




XI

SHOWS HOW THE "WHISPER FROM THE DAWN OF LIFE" ENABLES CORYNDON TO TAKE
THE DRIFTING THREADS BETWEEN HIS FINGERS


Very probably Hartley believed that he knew "all about" Coryndon; he
knew at least, that the Government of India looked upon him as the best
man they had to unravel the most intricate case that murder or forgery,
coining or fraud of any sort, could tangle into mysterious knots.
Coryndon had intuition and patience, and once he undertook a case he
followed it through to the ultimate conclusion; and so it was that
Coryndon stood alone, a department in himself, possibly aided by the
police and the shadower, but capable of discovering anything, once he
bent his mind to the business of elucidation.

Beyond the fact that he had been born somewhere in a jungle clearing in
Upper Burma, and that at ten years old he had gone to India to a school
in the Hills, then had vanished for years to reappear in the service of
the Government, his story was not known to anyone except himself. No one
doubted that he had "a touch of the country" in his blood. It displayed
itself in unmistakable physical traits, and his knowledge of its many
tongues and languages was the knowledge that first made him realize
that his future career lay in India.

Colonel Coryndon, his father, died just as the boy was leaving school,
and left him a little money; just enough to keep him from the iron yoke
of clerkship, and to allow of his waiting for what he wanted. Behind his
dark eyes lived a brain that could concentrate with the grip of a vise
upon any subject that interested him, and he puzzled his masters at his
school. Coryndon was a curious mixture of imagination and strong common
sense; few realize that it is only the imaginative mind that can see
behind the curtain that divides life from life, and discern motives.

He saw everything with an almost terrible clearness. Every detail of a
room, every line in a face, every shop in a street he walked through,
every man he spoke with, was registered in his indelible book of facts.
This, in itself, is not much. Men can learn the habit of observation as
they can train their minds to remember dates or historical facts, but,
in the case of Coryndon, this art was inherent and his by birth. He
started with it, and his later training of practising his odd capacity
for recalling the smallest detail of every day that passed only
intensified his power in this direction. With this qualification alone
he could have been immensely useful as a secret agent, but in addition
to this he had also his other gift, his intuition and power of altering
his own point of view for that of another man, and seeing his subject
through the eyes of everyone concerned in a question.

His nervous vitality was great, and there were plenty of well-educated
native subordinates who believed him gifted with occult forces, since
his ways of getting at his astonishing conclusions were never explained
to any living soul, because Coryndon could not have explained them to
himself.

His identity was well known at Headquarters, but beyond that limit it
was carefully hidden from the lower branches of the executive, as too
wide and too public recognition would have narrowed his sphere of
action. As Wesley declared the whole world to be his parish, so the
whole of Asia was Coryndon's sphere of action, and only at Headquarters
was it ever known where he actually might be found, or what employment
occupied his brain. He came like a rain-cloud blown up soundlessly on
the east wind, and vanished like morning mists, and no one knew what he
had learnt during his silent passing.

Men with voices like brass trumpets praised and encouraged him, and men
who knew the dark byways of criminal investigation were hardly jealous
of him. Coryndon was a freak, an exception, a man who stood beyond
competition, and was as sure as he was mysterious. He was "explained" in
a dozen ways. His face, to begin with, made disguise easy, and the touch
of the country did much for him in this respect. He had played behind
his father's up-country bungalow with little Burmese boys and talked in
their speech before he knew any English; the Bazaar was an open book to
him, and the mind of the native, so some men said with a shade of
contempt, not too far from his own to make understanding impossible.

Besides all this, there were those other years, after he left the school
under the high snow ranges, when Coryndon had vanished entirely, and of
these years he never spoke. And yet, with all this, Coryndon was
unmistakably a "Sahib," a man of unusual culture and brilliant ability.
He had complete powers of self-control, and his one passion was his love
of music, and though he never played for anyone else, men who had come
upon him unawares had heard him playing to himself in a way that was as
surprising as everything else about Coryndon surprised and astonished.

He had dreamed as a boy, and he still dreamed as a man. The subtle
beauty of a line of verse led him into visionary habitations as fair as
any ever disclosed to poet or artist. He could lose himself utterly in
the lights and shadows of a passing day, while he watched for a doomed
man at the entrance of a temple, or brooded over painted sores and cried
to the rich for alms by a dusty roadside; a very different Coryndon to
the Coryndon who looked at Hartley across the white cloth of the round
dinner-table.

The truth about Coryndon was that he read the souls of men. Mhtoon Pah
had boasted to Hartley that he read the walk of the world he looked at,
but Coryndon went much further; and as Hartley talked about outward
things, whilst the Boy and the _Khitmutghar_ flitted in and out behind
them, carrying plates and dishes, his guest was considering him with a
quiet and almost moonstruck gravity of mind. He knew just how far
Hartley could go, and he knew exactly what blocked him. Hartley was tied
into the close meshes of circumstance; he argued from without and worked
inward, and Coryndon had discovered the flaw in this process before he
left his school.

When they were alone at last, Hartley pushed his chair closer to
Coryndon and leaned forward.

"One moment." Coryndon's voice was lowered slightly, and he strolled to
the door.

"Boy," he called, and with amazing alacrity Hartley's servant appeared.

"Tell my servant," he said, speaking in English, "that I want the cigar
tin."

"Do you believe he was listening?"

"I am sure of it."

Hartley flushed angrily, and he was about to speak when Coryndon's man
came into the room, salaaming on the threshold, carrying a black tin.

"Would you like a little stroll in the garden?" said Coryndon. "It would
be pleasant before we sit down," and Hartley followed him out.

"Did you bring any cigars down?"

Hartley spoke for the sake of saying something, more than for any
reasonable desire to know whether Coryndon had done so or not, and his
reply was a low, amused laugh.

"In ten minutes Shiraz will do a little juggling for your servants," he
said placidly. "There are no cigars in the tin. I hope you didn't want
one, Hartley? He will probably tell them that I am a new arrival,
picked up by him at Bombay. Whatever he tells them, they will find him
amusing."

A misty moonlight lighted the garden with a soft, yellow haze, and the
harsh rattling of night beetles sounded unusually loud and noisy in the
silence.

"You said that you had just finished a job?"

"I have, and now I am on leave. The Powers have given me four months,
and I am going to London to hear the Wagner Cycle. I promised myself
that long ago, and unless something very special crops up to prevent me,
I shall start in a week from now."

They took another silent turn.

"Did your last job work out?"

"Yes. It took a long time, but I got back into touch with things I had
begun to forget, and it was interesting. Shall we go back into the
house?"

"Come in here," said Hartley, taking his way into the sitting-room. "I
have some notes in my safe that I want you to look at. The truth is,
Coryndon, I'm tackling rather a nasty business, and if you can help me,
I'll be eternally grateful to you. It has got on my nerves."

Coryndon bowed his head silently and drew up a chair near the table. All
the time that Hartley talked to him, he listened with close attention.
The Head of the Police went into the whole subject at length, telling
the story as it had happened, and leaving out, so far as he knew, no
point that bore upon the question. First he told of the disappearance of
the boy Absalom, the grief and frantic despair of Mhtoon Pah, and his
visit to Hartley in the very room where they sat.

"He was away from the curio shop that night, you say?"

"Yes, at the Pagoda. He is building a shrine there. His statement to me
was that he went away just after dark, and the boy had already left an
hour before."

Coryndon said nothing, but waited for the rest of the story, and, bit by
bit, Hartley set it before him.

"Heath saw Absalom, and admitted it to me," he said, pulling at his
short, red moustache. "Even then he showed a very curious amount of
irritation, and refused to say anything further. Then he lied to me when
I went to the house, and there is Atkins' testimony to the fact that he
is paying a man to keep quiet."

"Has the man reappeared since?"

"Not since I had the house watched."

Coryndon's eyes narrowed and he moved his hands slightly.

"Next there is the very trifling evidence of Mrs. Wilder. It doesn't
count for much, but it goes to prove that she knows something of Heath
which she won't give away. She knows something, or she wouldn't screen
him. That is simple deduction."

"Quite simple."

"Now, with reference to Joicey," went on Hartley, with a frown. "I don't
personally think that Joicey knows or remembers whether he did see
Heath. My Superintendent swears that he did go down Paradise Street on
the night of the twenty-ninth, but Joicey is ill, and he said he wasn't
in Mangadone then. He has been seedy for some time and may have mixed up
dates."

"You attach no importance to him?"

"Practically none." Hartley leaned back in his chair and lighted a
cheroot.

Coryndon touched the piece of silk rag with his hand.

"This rag business is out of place, taken in connection with Heath."

"I don't accuse Heath, Coryndon, but I believe that he _knows_ where the
boy went. The last thing that was told me by Mhtoon Pah was that the
gold lacquer bowl that was ordered by Mrs. Wilder was found on the steps
of the shop. Though what that means, the devil only knows. Mhtoon Pah
considers it likely that the Chinaman, Leh Shin, put it there, but I
have absolutely nothing to connect Leh Shin with the disappearance, and
I have withdrawn the men who were watching the shop."

"Interesting," said Coryndon slowly.

"Can you give me any opinion? I'm badly in need of help."

Coryndon shook his head, his hand still touching the stained rag idly.

"I could give you none at all, on these facts."

Hartley looked at him with a fixed and imploring stare.

"In a place like this, to be the chief mover, the actual incentive to
disclosing God knows what, is simply horrible," he said in a rough,
pained voice. "I've done my share of work, Coryndon, and I've taken my
own risks, but any cases I've had against white men haven't been against
men like the Padré."

Coryndon gave a little short sigh that had weariness in its sound,
weariness or impatience.

"What you have told me involves three principals, and a score of
others." He was counting as he spoke. "Any one of them may be the man
you are looking for, only circumstances indicate one in particular. You
are satisfied that you have got the line. I could not confidently say
that you have, unless I had been working the case myself, and had
followed up every clue throughout."

Hartley got up and paced the room, his hands deep in the pockets of his
dinner jacket.

"I am convinced that Heath will have to be forced to speak, and, I may
as well be honest with you--I don't like forcing him."

Coryndon was not watching his host, he was leaning back in his chair,
his eyes on a little spiral of smoke that circled up from his cigarette.

"I wish that damned little Absalom had never been heard of, and that it
was anybody's business but mine to find him, if he is to be found."

If Coryndon's finely-cut lips trembled into an instantaneous smile, it
passed almost at once, and he looked quietly round at Hartley, who still
paced, looking like an overgrown schoolboy in a bad mood.

"I wish I could help you, Hartley, but I have not enough to go on. As
you say, the case is unusual, and it makes it impossible for me to
advise." He got up and stretched himself. "There is one thing I will
do, if you wish it, and, from what you said, you may wish it; I will
take over the whole thing--for my holiday, and the Wagner Cycle will
have to wait."

Hartley came to a standstill before his guest.

"You'll do that, Coryndon?"

"The case interests me," said Coryndon, "otherwise, I should not suggest
it." He paused for a moment and reflected. "I shall have to make your
bungalow my headquarters; that is the simplest plan. Any absences may be
accounted for by shooting trips and that sort of thing. That part of it
is straightforward enough, and I can see the people I want to see."

"You shall have a free hand to do anything you like," said Hartley. "And
any help that I can give you."

Coryndon looked at him for a moment without replying.

"Thank you, Hartley. Our methods are different, as you know, but when I
want you, I will tell you how you can help me."

He walked across the room to where two tumblers and a decanter of whisky
stood on a tray, and, pouring himself out a glass of soda water, sipped
it slowly.

"Here are my notes," said Hartley, in a voice of great relief. "They
will be useful for reference."

Coryndon folded them up and put them in his pocket.

"Most of what is there is also in my official report."

Coryndon nodded his head, and, opening the piano, struck a light chord.
After a moment he sat down and played softly, and the air he played came
straight from the high rocks that guard the Afghan frontier. Like a
breeze that springs up at evening, the little love-song lilted and
whispered under his compelling fingers, and the "Song of the Broken
Heart" sang itself in the room of Hartley, Head of the Police. Where it
carried Coryndon no one could guess, but it carried Hartley into a very
rose-garden of sentimental fatuity, and when the music stopped he gave a
deep grunting sigh of content.

"I'll get some honest sleep to-night," he said as they parted, and ten
minutes afterwards he was lying under his mosquito-curtains, oblivious
to the world.

Coryndon's servant, Shiraz, was squatting across the door that led into
the veranda when his master came in, and he waited for his orders. He
would have sat anywhere for weeks, and had done so, to await the
doubtful coming of Coryndon, whose times and seasons no man knew.

When he was gone, Coryndon took out the bulky packet of notes and
extracted the piece of rag, which he locked carefully away in a
dispatch-box. He then cleared a little space on the floor, and put the
papers lightly over one another. Setting a match to them, he watched
them light up and curl into brittle tinder, and dissolve from that stage
into a heap of charred ashes, which he gathered up with a careful hand
and put into the soft earth of a fern-box outside his veranda door. This
being done, he sat down and began to think steadily, letting the names
drift through his brain, one by one, until they sorted themselves, and
he felt for the most useful name to take first.

"Joicey, the Banker, is a man of no importance," he murmured to himself,
and again he said, "Joicey the Banker."

It was nearly dawn when he got between the cool linen sheets, and was
asleep almost as his dark head lay back against the soft white pillow.




XII

SHOWS HOW A MAN MAY CLIMB A HUNDRED STEPS INTO A PASSIONLESS PEACE, AND
RETURN AGAIN TO A WORLD OF SMALL TORMENTS


By the end of a week Coryndon had slipped into the ways of Mangadone,
slipped in quietly and without causing much comment. He went to the Club
with Hartley and made the acquaintance of nearly all his host's friends,
and they, in return, gave him the casual notice accorded to a passing
stranger who had no part or lot in their lives or interests. Coryndon
was very quiet and listened to everything; he listened to a great deal
in the first three days, and Fitzgibbon, a barrister, offered to take
him round and show him the town.

Coryndon was "shown the town," but apparently he found a lasting joy in
sight-seeing, and could witness the same sights repeatedly without
failing interest. He climbed the steps to the Pagoda, under the guidance
of Fitzgibbon, the first afternoon they met.

"Won't you come, too, Hartley?" asked the Barrister.

"Not if I know it. I've been there about sixty times. If Coryndon wants
to see it, I'm thankful to let him go there with you."

Fitzgibbon, who had a craze for borrowing anything that he was likely
to want, had persuaded Prescott, the junior partner in a rice firm, to
lend him his car, and as he sat in the tonneau beside Coryndon, he
pointed out the places of interest. Their way lay first through the
residential quarter, and Hartley's guest saw the entrance gate and
gardens of Draycott Wilder's house.

"The most interesting and certainly the best-looking woman in Mangadone
lives there, a Mrs. Wilder. Hartley ought to have told you about her; he
is rather favoured by the lady. Her husband is a rising civilian. Mrs.
Wilder has bought Asia, and is wondering whether she'll buy Europe
next."

Coryndon hardly appeared impressed or even interested.

"So she is a friend of Hartley's?" he said carelessly. "I hadn't heard
that."

Fitzgibbon laughed.

"It's something to be a friend of Mrs. Wilder--that is, in Mangadone."

They sped on over the level road, and the car swung through the streets
that led towards the open space before the temple.

"That is the curio dealer's shop. Don't get any of your stuff there. The
man's a robber."

"Which shop?" asked Coryndon patiently.

"We're past it now, but it was the one with a dancing man outside of it,
a funny little effigy."

Coryndon's eyes were turned to the Pagoda, and he was evidently
inattentive.

"It strikes you, doesn't it?" asked Fitzgibbon, in the tones of a
gratified showman. "It always does strike people who haven't seen it
before."

"Naturally, when one has not seen it before," echoed his companion, as
the car drew up.

Coryndon stood for a moment looking at the entrance, and surveying the
huge plaster dragons with their gaping mouths and vermilion-red tongues.
They were ranged up a green slope, two on either side of the brown
fretted roof that covered the steep tunnel that led up a flight of more
than a hundred steps to the flat plateau, where the golden spire towered
high over all, amid a crowd of lesser minarets.

Surrounded by baskets of roses and orchids, little silk-clothed Burmese
girls sat on the entrance steps, and sold their wares. Fitzgibbon would
have hurried on, but Coryndon, in true tripper fashion, stopped and
bought an armful of blossoms.

"What am I to do with these things?" he asked helplessly.

"Oh, you'd better leave them before one of the _Gaudamas_, and acquire
merit. If you let them all plunder you like this, we'll never get to the
top."

Flight after flight, the two men climbed slowly, and Coryndon stood at
intervals to watch the crowd that came up and down. The steps were so
steep that the arch above them only disclosed descending feet, but
Coryndon watched the feet appear first and then the rest of the hurrying
or loitering men and women, and he sat on a seat beside a little
gathering of yellow-robed _Hypongyis_ until Fitzgibbon lost all
patience.

"There is a whole town of piety to see up at the top. Come on, man; we
have hours of it yet to get through. Don't waste time over those stalls.
Every picture of the Buddha story was made in Birmingham."

Progressing a little faster, Fitzgibbon piloted Coryndon past a stall
where yellow candles and bundles of joss-sticks in red paper cases were
sold at a varying price.

"I must get some of these," objected Coryndon, who added a rupee's worth
of incense and a white cheroot to his collection.

When they passed through the last archway and gained the plateau, he
looked round with eyes that spoke his keen interest. Even though he had
been there many times before, Coryndon looked at the sight with eyes
that grew shadowed by the dreaming soul that lived within him.

Twilight was gathering behind the trees; only the gold-laced spires of a
thousand minarets caught the last light of the sun. On the plateau below
the great pillar, that glimmered like a golden sword from base to
bell-hung _Htee_, lay what Fitzgibbon had described as "a little town of
piety." A village of shrines and Pagodas, each built with seven roofs,
open-fronted to disclose the holy place within; some large as a small
chapel; some small, giving room only for the figure of the _Gaudama_.
Here and there, the votive offerings had fallen into decay, and the
gold-leaf covering the Buddha was black and dilapidated by the passing
of years, for there is no merit to be acquired in rebuilding or
renovating a sacred place. From innumerable shrines, uncounted Buddhas
looked out with the same long, contemplative eyes; in bronze, in jade,
in white and black marble, in grey stone and gilded ebony, the
passionless face of the great Peace looked out upon his children.

Near to where Coryndon and the Barrister stood together, in the
peach-coloured evening light, a large shrine with a fretted roof was
thronged with worshippers, and Coryndon stood on the steps and looked
in. The floor of black, polished marble dimly reflected the immense gold
pillars that supported a lofty ceiling, lost entirely in the gloom, and
before a blaze of candles and a floating veil of scented grey smoke a
priest bowed himself, and prayed in a low, chanting voice. The face of
the Lord Buddha behind the rails was lighted by the wind-blown flame of
many tapers, so that it almost looked as though he smiled out of his
far-away Nirvana upon his kneeling worshippers, who could ask nothing of
him, not even mercy, since the salvation of a man is in his own hands.

Before the rails, a settle with low gilt legs was covered with offerings
of flowers, that added their scent to the heavy air, and on a small
table a feast of cakes and sweets was placed, to be distributed later on
among the poor. Coryndon disposed of his burden of pink and white roses
and little magenta prayer-flags, and lighted a bundle of joss-sticks,
before they came out again and wandered on.

As the daylight faded the lights from the shrines and the small booths
grew stronger, and the rising night wind, coming in from the river, rang
the silver bells around the spires, filling the whole air with tinkling
sound, and the slow-moving crowd around them laughed and joked, like
people at a fair. His eyes still full of dreams, Coryndon followed with
them, keeping one small packet of amber candles to light in honour of
some other Buddha in another shrine.

"Funny devils, these Burmese," remarked the Barrister. "They never clean
up anything. Look at the years of tallow collected under that spiked
gate that is falling off its hinges. That black little Buddha inside
must once have been a popular favourite, but no one gives him anything
now."

They turned a corner past a booth where bottles full of pink and yellow
fluid, and green leaves, wrapped around betel-nut, appeared to be the
chief stock-in-trade, and a noise of hammering struck on their ears.
Here a new shrine was being erected and was all but completed. A few
Chinamen, who had been working at it, were putting their tools into
canvas bags, preparatory to withdrawing like the remaining daylight.

"This is Mhtoon Pah's edifice," said Fitzgibbon, coming to a standstill.
"He doesn't seem to have spared expense, either. Shall we go in?"

The shrine was not a very large one, and the entrance was like the
entrance to a grotto at an Exhibition. Tiny facets of glass were crusted
into grass-green cement, shining like a thousand eyes, and, seated on a
vermilion lacquer daïs, a Buddha, with heavy eyelids that hid his
strange eyes, presided over an illumination of smoking flame. The smell
of joss-sticks was heavy on the air, and the filigree cloak worn by the
Buddha was enriched with red and green glass that shone and glittered.

"They say the caste-mark in his forehead is a real diamond," remarked
the Barrister. "I don't suppose it is, but at least it is a good
imitation."

Coryndon was not listening to him; he had gone close to the marble
rails, and was lighting his little bunch of yellow tapers. He lighted
them one by one, and put each one down on the floor very slowly and
carefully, and when he had finished he turned round.

"Mhtoon Pah is the man who has the curio shop?" he asked.

"The very same. It gives you some idea of his percentage on sales,
what?"

Coryndon joined in his laugh, and they went out again into the street of
sanctity. Fitzgibbon was now getting exhausted, for his companion's
desire to "do" the Pagoda was apparently insatiable; and he asked
interminable questions that the Barrister was totally unable to answer.

Coryndon seemed to find something fresh and interesting around every
corner. The white elephants delighted him, particularly where green
creepers had grown round their trunks, giving them a realistic effect of
enjoying a meal. The handles off very common English chests-of-drawers,
that were set along a rail enclosing a sleeping Buddha, pleased him like
a child, as did the bits of looking-glass with "Black and White Whisky,"
or "Apollinaris Water," inscribed across their faces.

"That sort of thing seems to attract them," explained Fitzgibbon. "In
one of the shrines there is a fancy biscuit-box at a Buddha's feet. It
has got 'Huntley and Palmer' on the top, and pictures of children and
swans all around it. Funny devils, I always say so."

At length he had to drag Coryndon away, almost by main force.

"I'd like to have seen Mhtoon Pah," he objected. "He ought to be on view
with his chapel."

"Shrine, Coryndon. You can see him in his shop," and they began the
descent down the steep steps.

"Look," said the Barrister quickly, "there is Mhtoon Pah. No, not the
man in white trousers, that's a Chinaman with a pigtail under his hat;
the fat old thing in the short silk _loongyi_ and crimson head-scarf."

Coryndon hardly glanced at him, as he passed with a scent of spice and
sandal-wood in his garments; his attention had been attracted by a booth
where men were eating curry.

"It is a curious custom to sell food in a place like this," he remarked
to the Barrister.

"It's part of the Oriental mind," replied his guide. "No one understands
it. No one ever will; so don't try and begin, or you'll wear yourself
out."

When they got back to the Club it was already late, and the hall of the
bar was crowded with men, standing together in groups, or sitting in
long, uncompromising chairs under the impression that they were
comfortable seats.

"Hullo, Joicey," said the Barrister, as he fell over his legs. "I'm
dog-beat. Been doing the Pagoda with Coryndon. Do you know each
other--?" He waved his hand by way of introduction, and Coryndon took an
empty chair beside the Banker, who heaved himself up a little in his
seat, and signalled to a small boy in white, who was scuffling with
another small boy, also in white, and ordered some drinks.

"I am new to it," explained Coryndon, and his voice sounded tired, as
though the Pagoda had been a little too much for him.

Joicey did not reply; he was looking away, and Coryndon followed his
eyes. Near the wide staircase, and just about to go up it, a man was
standing, talking to a friend. He was dressed in an ill-cut suit of
white, with a V-shaped inlet of black under his round collar; he held a
_topi_ of an old pattern under his arm, and the light showed his face
cadaverous and worn. Joicey was holding the arm of his chair, and his
under-lip trembled.

"Inexplicable," he muttered, and drank with a gulping sound.

"What did you say?" asked Coryndon politely.

"Say? Did I say anything? I can't remember that I did." The Banker's
voice was irritable, and he still watched the clergyman.

"What strikes me about the Pagoda is the strong Chinese element in the
design. I am told that there are a lot of Chinamen in Mangadone. I
should like to see their quarter."

"Hartley should be able to arrange that for you."

Joicey was evidently growing tired of Coryndon's freshness and
enthusiasm, and he passed his hand over his face, as though the damp
heat of the night depressed his mind.

"Hartley is very busy," said Coryndon, with the determination of a man
who intends to see what he has come to see. "I don't like to be
perpetually badgering him. Could I go alone?"

"You could," said Joicey shortly.

"I want to miss nothing."

Coryndon turned his head away and looked at the crowded room, fixing his
gaze on a whirring fan that hung low on a brass rod, and when he looked
round again, Joicey had got up and was making his way out into the
night. Fitzgibbon was surrounded by several other men, and there was no
sign of his friend Hartley, so he got up and slipped out, standing
hatless, until his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness.

The strong lights from the veranda encroached some way into the gloom,
and, here and there, a few people still sat around basket tables,
enjoying the evening air. Coryndon looked at them, with his head bent
forward, a little like a cat just about to emerge through a door into a
dark passage. For a little time, he stood there, watching and listening,
and then he turned away and walked out along the footpath, as though in
a hurry to get back to his bungalow.




XIII

PUTS FORWARD THE FACT THAT A SUDDEN FRIENDSHIP NEED NOT BE BASED UPON A
SUDDEN LIKING; AND PASSES THE NIGHT UNTIL DAWN REVEALS A SHAMEFUL SECRET


Some ten days after Coryndon had taken up his quarters with Hartley, he
informed his host that he intended to disappear for a time, and that he
would take his servant, Shiraz, with him. He had been through every
quarter of Mangadone before he set out to commence operations, and the
whole town lay clear as a map in his mind.

Hartley was dining out, "dining at the Wilders'," he said casually, and
he further informed Coryndon that Mrs. Wilder had asked him to bring his
friend, but no amount of persuasion could induce Coryndon to forgo an
evening by himself. He pointed out to Hartley that he never went into
society, and that he found it a strain on his mind when he required to
think anything through, and, with a greater show of reluctance than he
really felt, Hartley conceded to his wish, and Coryndon sat down to a
solitary meal. He ate very sparingly and drank plain soda water, and
whilst he sat at the table his long, yellow-white fingers played on the
cloth, and his eyes followed the swaying punkah mat with an odd,
intense light in their inscrutable depths.

He had made Hartley understand that he never talked over a case, and
that he followed it out entirely according to his own ideas, and Hartley
honestly respected his reserve, making no effort to break it.

"When the hands are full, something falls to the ground and is lost,"
Coryndon murmured to himself as he got up and went to his room.
"Shiraz," he called, "Shiraz," and the servant sprang like a shadow from
the darkness in response to his master's summons.

"To-night I go out." Coryndon waved his hand. "To-morrow I go out, and
of the third day--I cannot tell. Let it be known to the servant people
that, like all travelling Sahibs, I wish to see the evil of the great
city. I may return with the morning, but it may be that I shall be
late."

"_Inshallah, Huzoor_," murmured Shiraz, bowing his head, "what is the
will of the Master?"

"A rich man is marked among his kind; where he goes the eyes of all men
turn to follow his steps, but the poor man is as a grain of sand in the
dust-storm of a Northern Province. Great are the blessings of the humble
and needy of the earth, for like the wind in its passing, they are
invisible to the eyes of men."

Shiraz made no response; he lowered the green chicks outside the doors
and windows, and opened a small box, battered with age and wear.

"The servant's box is permitted to remain in the room of the Lord
Sahib," he said with a low chuckle. "When asked of my effrontery in this
matter, I reply that the Lord Sahib is ignorant, that he minds not the
dignity of his condition, and behold, it is never touched, though the
leathern box of the Master has been carefully searched by Babu, the
butler of Hartley Sahib, who knows all that lies folded therein."

While he spoke he was busy unwrapping a collection of senah bundles,
which he took out from beneath a roll of dusters and miscellaneous
rubbish, carefully placed on the top. The box had no lock and was merely
fastened with a bit of thick string, tied into a series of cunning
knots.

When he had finished unpacking, he laid a faded strip of
brightly-coloured cotton on the bed, in company with a soiled jacket and
a tattered silk head-scarf, and, as Shiraz made these preparations,
Coryndon, with the aid of a few pigments in a tin box, altered his face
beyond recognition. He wore his hair longer than that of the average
man, and, taking his hair-brushes, he brushed it back from his temples
and tied a coarse hank of black hair to it, and knotted it at the back
of his head. He dressed quickly, his slight, spare form wound round the
hips with a cotton _loongyi_, and he pulled on the coat over a thin,
ragged vest, and sat down, while Shiraz tied the handkerchief around his
head.

The art of make-up is, in itself, simple enough, but the very much more
subtle art of expression is the gift of the very few. It was hard to
believe that the slightly foreign-looking young man with Oriental eyes
could be the pock-marked, poverty-stricken Burman who stood in his
place.

Slipping on a light overcoat, he pulled a large, soft hat over his head,
and walked out quickly through the veranda.

"Now, then, Shiraz," he called out in a quick, ill-tempered voice. "Come
along with the lamp. Hang it; you know what I mean, the _butti_. These
infernal garden-paths are alive with snakes."

Shiraz hastened after him, cringing visibly, and swinging a hurricane
lamp as he went. When they had got clear of the house and were near the
gate, Coryndon spoke to him in a low voice.

"Pull my boots off my feet." Shiraz did as he was bidden and slipped his
master's feet into the leather sandals which he carried under his wide
belt. "Now take the coat and hat, and in due time I shall return, though
not by day. Let it be known that to-morrow we take our journey of seven
days; and it may be that to-morrow we shall do so."

"_Inshallah_," murmured Shiraz, and returned to the house.

By night the streets of Mangadone were a sight that many legitimate
trippers had turned out to witness. The trams were crowded and the
native shops flared with light, for the night is cool and the day hot
and stifling; therefore, by night a large proportion of the inhabitants
of Mangadone take their pleasure out of doors. In the Berlin Café the
little tables were crowded with those strange anomalies, black men and
women in European clothes. There had been a concert in the Presentation
Hall, and the audience nearly all reassembled at the Berlin Café for
light refreshments when the musical programme was concluded.

Paradise Street was not behindhand in the matter of entertainment: there
was a wedding festival in progress, and, at the modest café, a thick
concourse of men talking and singing and enjoying life after their own
fashion; only the house of Mhtoon Pah, the curio dealer, was dark, and
it was before this house, close to the figure of the pointing man, that
the weedy-looking Burman who had come out of Hartley's compound stopped
for a moment or two. He did not appear to find anything to keep him
there; the little man had nothing better to offer him than a closed
door, and a closed door is a definite obstacle to anyone who is not a
housebreaker, or the owner with a key in his pocket; so, at least, the
Burman seemed to think, for he passed on up the street towards the river
end.

From there to the colonnade where the Chinese Quarter began was a
distance of half a by-street, and Coryndon slid along, apologetically
close to the wall. He avoided the policeman in his blue coat and high
khaki turban, and his manner was generally inoffensive and harmless as
he sneaked into the low entrance of Leh Shin's lesser curio shop. A
large coloured lantern hung outside the inner room, and a couple of
candles did honour to the infuriated Joss who capered in colour on the
wall.

All the hidden vitality of the man seemed to live in every line of his
lithe body as he looked in, but it subsided again as he entered, and he
stared vacantly around him.

There was no one in the shop but Leh Shin's assistant, who was finishing
a meal of cold pork, and whose heavy shoulders worked with his jaws. He
ceased both movements when Coryndon entered, and continued again as he
spoke, the flap of his tweed hat shaking like elephants' ears. He
informed Coryndon, who spoke to him in Yunnanese, that Leh Shin was out,
so that if he had anything to sell, he would arrange the details of the
bargain, and if he wanted to buy, he could leave the price of the
article with the trusted assistant of Leh Shin.

It took Coryndon some time to buy what he needed, which appeared to be
nothing more interesting than a couple of old boxes. The Burman needed
these to pack a few goods in, as he meditated inhabiting the empty,
rat-infested house next door but one to the shop of Leh Shin. Upon
hearing that they were to be neighbours, the assistant grew sulky and
informed Coryndon that trade was slack if he wished to sell anything,
but his eyes grew crafty again when he was informed that his new
acquaintance did not act for himself, but for a friend from Madras, who
having made much money out of a Sahib, whose bearer he had been for some
years, desired to open business in a small way with sweets and grain and
such-like trifles, whereby to gain an honest living.

The assistant glanced at the clock, when, after much haggling, the deal
was concluded, and the Burman knotted the remainder of his money in a
small corner of his _loongyi_, and stood rubbing his elbows, looking at
the Chinaman, who appeared restless.

"Where shall I find Leh Shin?" The Burman put the question suddenly. "In
what house am I to seek him, assistant of the widower and the
childless?"

The boy leered and jerked his thumb towards the direction of the river.

"Closed to-night, follower of the Way," he said with a smothered noise
like a strangled laugh. "Closed to-night. Every door shut, every light
hidden, and those who go and demand the dreams cannot pass in. I, only,
know the password, since my master receives high persons." He spat on
the floor.

Coryndon bowed his head in passive subjection.

"None else know my quantity," he murmured. "These thieves in the lesser
streets would mix me a poison and do me evil."

The assistant scratched his head diligently and looked doubtfully at the
Burman.

"And yet I cannot remember thy face."

"I have been away up the big river. I have travelled far to that Island,
where I, with other innocent ones, suffered for no fault of mine."

Leh Shin's assistant looked satisfied. If the Burman were but lately
returned from the convict settlement on the Andaman Islands, it was
quite likely that he might not have been acquainted with him.

To all appearances, the bargain being concluded, and Leh Shin being
absent from the shop, there was nothing further to keep the customer,
yet he made no sign of wishing to leave, and, after a little preamble,
he invited the assistant to drink with him, since, he explained, he
needed company and had taken a fancy to the Chinese boy, who, in his
turn, admitted to a liking for any man who was prepared to entertain him
free of expense. Leh Shin's assistant could not leave the shop for
another hour, so the Burman, who did not appear inclined to wait so
long, went out swiftly, and came back with a bottle of native spirit.

Fired by the fumes of the potent and burning alcohol, the Chinaman
became inquisitive, and wished to hear the details of the crime for
which his new friend had so wrongfully suffered. He looked so evil, so
greasy, and so utterly loathsome that he seemed to fascinate the Burman,
who rocked himself about and moaned as he related the story of his
wrong. His words so excited the ghoulish interest of his listener that
his bloated body quivered as he drank in the details.

"And so ends the tale of his great evil; he that was my friend," said
Coryndon, rising from his heels as he finished his story. "The hour
grows late and there is no comfort in the night, since I may not find
oblivion." He passed his hand stupidly over his forehead. "My memory is
lost, flapping like an owl in the sunlight; once the road to the house
by the river lay before me as the lines upon my open palm, but now the
way is no longer clear."

"I have said that it is closed to-night, so none may enter. There is a
password, but I alone know it, and I may not tell it, friend of an evil
man."

"There are other nights," whined the Burman, "many of them in the
passing of a year. When I have the knowledge of thee, then may I seek
and find later." He rubbed his knees with an indescribable gesture of
mean cringing.

The Chinese boy drank from the bottle and smacked his lips.

"Hear, then, thou convict," he said in a shrill hectoring voice. "By the
way of Paradise Street, along the wharf and past the waste place where
the tram-line ends and the houses stand far apart. Of the houses of
commerce, I do not speak; of the mat houses where the Coringyhis live, I
do not speak, but beyond them, open below to the water-snakes, and built
above into a secret place, is the house we know of, but Leh Shin is not
there for thee to-night, as I have already spoken."

He felt in the pouch at his waist for a rank black cigar, which he
pushed into his mouth and lighted with a sulphur match.

"Who fries the mud fish when he may eat roast duck?" he said, with a
harsh cackle that made the Burman start and stare at him.

"_Aie! Aie!_ I do not understand thy words." The Burman's face grew
blank and he went to the door.

"Neither do you need to, son of a chained monkey," retorted the boy,
full of strong liquor and arr

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